


Dichotomy

by aLovelyrose



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aLovelyrose/pseuds/aLovelyrose
Summary: Mallory survives the carnage of Outpost 3 And is taken to the Sanctuary. Now she must discover the truth about herself and the mysterious Michael Langdon.





	1. Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> First Millory fic ever written! I wanted to give my own alternative ending the Apocalypse with themes and developments I saw blossoming in the first few episodes. Enjoy!

The filth covered bodies of the Outpost 3 residents lay cold and unmoving, the ground beneath them splattered with their bile and blood; apples with a single bite taken out of them were scattered about the room, or still gripped in the fingers of their victims. Among the lifeless corpses all dressed in fancy 18th century clothing, lies one particular body, a young woman in a gray maid’s outfit, dirty blonde hair wrapped above her head, vomit and foam bubbling out of her open mouth. Invisible, a power surged into the mass grave and surrounded the woman.  
Her lungs filled with air, and warm blood pumped through her veins once more. She inhaled, and upon releasing her breath, she opened her eyes.  
. . .  
Michael smiled. Feeling finally that everything had been set right. Ms. Mead’s deep dark eyes were filled with remembrance and love, just like he remembered from his childhood. Nothing would ever separate them again. Every single evil, selfish motherfucker in the Outpost was dead, and he could return to the Sanctuary with his Ms. Mead and revive this stinking, rotting corpse of a world and rebuild it in his father’s image…in his own image. He would finally—  
A sharp, overpowering sensation stabbed through him like a knife. His face twisted in confusion as he drew his gaze to sit over Mead’s head, staring off into nothing, as if waiting for a threat to burst through his door.  
“What is it?” Mead asked, jarred by his quick change of expression.  
His mouth slightly agape, a small thorn of fear pricked at his mind, “A powerful presence.”  
She touched his arm like a loving mother comforts her child that there is no boogeyman, “But everyone’s dead.”  
He met her eyes and answered with a hurried breath, “Not anymore.”  
. . .  
Mallory sat up suddenly, the room spinning and hazy. Her arms trembled as if struggling to hold her up. She removed her glasses, letting them drop to the floor; their soft thud muffled by a piercing ring in her ears.  
She turned over to gain footing; her fingers grazing a wet, slimy surface. She grimaced and looked at her hand, now covered with a film of vomit and foam. She stood and wiped it on her dress, all senses sharpening. Her eyes widened in disbelief. She surveyed the room, shaking. Everyone was dead. Timothy and Emily lay parallel to each other, open, cold eyes staring into each other’s like a morbid lover’s embrace. Mr. Gallant was lying on his back near the center of the room, the entire front of his clothes covered in bile. The others were scattered about the small room in their own clusters.  
Except Coco. She couldn’t see Coco among the bodies. A panicked buzzing formed a ball in her chest. She froze where she stood, running over the previous events in her mind.  
Then she remembered that Coco had disappeared at the beginning of the party with that black-robed figure that she had assumed was either a guard or another Gray. She didn’t remember where she and the figure had gone. She looked towards the hallway, bracing to run. Maybe they were still alive.  
“Very impressive, Mallory.”  
Her gaze whirled to the balcony above her. Mr. Langdon and Ms. Mead stood side by side, looking down on her, illuminated by soft golden candlelight. Langdon’s smile was intrigued, like a scientist staring at a lab rat responding positively to an experiment.  
So many different thoughts were spinning around in her head. But the most important one was Coco. If Langdon, Mead, and Venable did this, then she and Coco weren’t safe.  
“I don’t know how,” Langdon continued dulcetly, “but you’ve managed to survive.”  
He turned and went out the doorway slowly, leaving Ms. Mead to watch Mallory as she stood among the carnage. She glared at Mead, who only met her with a cold, unemotional frown. Langdon appeared on the lower floor; his walk was slow and even, like a predator’s. Mallory forced herself to look into his icy eyes every step he took. Her heart pounded in her ears as he drew closer; she balled her hands into fists and stood her ground.  
He stopped with barely any space between them. His body heat radiating like a dangerous aura, a faint smell of smoke and warm vanilla making her dizzy. She trembled despite herself.  
“I knew I was right about you,” his tone was low, almost breathy, “You’re perfect for The Sanctuary.”  
She swallowed hard, anger pulsing through her veins, “Did you do this?”  
He side-eyed the bodies to his left, a smug grin subtly creeping onto his face, “Yes, but only to prove what I already knew,” he leaned in closer, “That the others were unworthy.”  
She stared at him, unsure how to process everything, when she realized who else was missing, “Ms. Venable—“  
“Is dead,” he interrupted nonchalantly, “The selection has been made.”  
She held in a gasp, every sense in her body becoming alert, “What about Coco?”  
He cocked his head.  
“She disappeared before we ate the apples they gave us.”  
He didn’t blink.  
“Please, she might be alive, I have to—“  
“Mallory,” he said gently, reaching out to caress her face, “Coco Vanderbilt was never going to survive. You’ve known that from the beginning. You said so yourself that she was helpless.”  
“Please, that’s why she needs me. I have to know—“  
“She’s dead Mallory,” his fingers traced to her chin, “Her boyfriend survived. He found his way into the Outpost and stabbed her in the head.”  
The sweetness of his voice rubbed salt in the wound. Her knees threatened to buckle. It was the first time her gaze dropped.  
“There’s no need to mourn, Mallory. You’ve just been given the opportunity to live.”  
He took a single step back, hands behind him, “If you will fall to your knees before me, Mallory, accept my offer, I will be your savior, and bring you into a world worthy of the likes of you.”  
Tears silently dripped down her cheeks. A long moment passed, her fists loosened into trembling fingers. Her voice cracked, “I accept.”  
“Declare it,” he commanded, “Proclaim me as your lord and savior.”  
She looked up at him and slowly sank to her knees. She could see something shift in his expression when she slipped down. A subtle twitch, almost as if he hid a secret reaction he couldn’t show.  
“You are my lord and savior,” Mallory slowly muttered, “I am at your command.”


	2. Once Upon a Nuclear Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory sees strange visions, connecting her to a past she can’t recall. When she arrives at The Sanctuary, it’s a utopia; but does it have a darker side that’s lurking underneath?

Mallory wandered aimlessly around her room at the Outpost, as if looking for things to pack up. She had nothing but the clothes on her back, but it kept her occupied; something normal to distract her reeling mind. Langdon had said that it wouldn’t be until morning that transportation to the Sanctuary would arrive, though that meant almost nothing to her. She hadn’t seen the sun in so long her concepts of morning and night were virtually nonexistent. He had assured her that deliverance was on its way and sent her off to her room to prepare for her departure. Her “preparation” consisted of alternating between blankly staring at the wall or pacing from her door to the bed for fluid, endless time. Every step was weak, like the weight of her purpose had suddenly been lifted off of her, and she couldn’t regain her balance. She’d wipe away involuntary tears from her eyes, never actually breaking down into sobbing; too numb to do so. She’d lost everything. Coco was her responsibility and now…she was gone. She’d begged Langdon to let her see the body, but he refused. He and Ms. Mead were disposing of everyone now. Tossing them out into the radioactive wasteland as food for the cannibals. And all the while, so many questions rushed through her head. How could she have possibly survived the poisoning? How did Langdon know about Brock? How did he know he snuck into the Outpost and killed Coco? Did he plan that too? But how? Who was he? What was he?  
“Mallory…”  
She sat up on the bed, wide-eyed. The whisper had floated into the room from nowhere, soft yet like thunder in her soul.  
“Hello?”  
“Mallory…”  
The voice was full of familiarity. It pulled her out of her musings and triggered something in her mind. A dull ache spiraled in the back of her head, oscillating, poking at a nerve deep in her subconscious that made images burst before her mind’s eye; like someone continually pressing the flash on a camera. She saw blurry, saturated visions of Coco and…other people…women…a large, white house…  
She looked down at her hands, seeing a deer on the wooden floor, open wounds bleeding, neck bent unnaturally. She knelt down, reaching out, keeping her fingers just above the doe’s fur. Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath, as if she were reliving a moment in her body, and warm, buzzing energy flowed from the bottom of her feet to her hands, releasing power that made her fingertips pulse. She gasped as the doe’s neck snapped back into place, blood seeping back into its closing wounds like watching time in reverse. The doe’s eyes opened and stared up at her, almost gratefully, before scampering off and disappearing into the wall.  
“Mallory…”  
This time the voice came from the mirror setting near the bathroom. She stood slowly, watching the reflective glass as she walked towards it. She stood staring at herself, the voice still whispering her name. It never felt threatening, but like it was trying to get her attention. Her reflection started to morph, her face and body twisting and changing until it was an entirely different person: a beautiful woman wearing black. She was older than her, golden hair flowing down to her shoulders; her deep brown eyes kindly regarding her longingly. Her full lips parted to speak, but all she said, or was able to say, was a soft, pleading,  
“Mallory…”  
A sharp, loud knock at her door scared her awake.  
“Yes?” She called breathlessly.  
The door opened, Ms. Mead standing outside.  
“The carriage is here,” she said succinctly.  
Mallory nodded and slipped out of bed, following Mead to the decontamination room where they put on the hazmat suits and gas masks.  
“Where’s…” she didn’t know how to address him in front of Mead, she seemed keen on making sure he was respected, “Mr. Langdon?”  
Mead paused, holding the mask in front of her face; she said coldly, “Lord Langdon is already aboveground waiting for us.”  
Mallory bit her lip and slipped on her mask without another word.  
When the two of them stepped into the outside world, Mallory’s knees nearly buckled beneath her. Desolate was too soft a word for the devastation before them. Thick fog covered every inch, blocking any vision beyond her immediate surroundings. Everything from the sky to the dirt was stained a musty, sickly, pale green. A memory from her childhood popped into her mind, her grandmother reading from the Bible about a rider on a pale horse.  
Mead roughly pulled on her arm and she followed her. Two figures, one of which she assumed to be Langdon, were standing next to a horse-drawn carriage. It was straight out of a gothic movie; windowless, ornate and silver, little fanged gargoyles and demons carved into the details and a velvet black canopy provided their roof. Another suited figure was perched on a box shaped seat at the front, holding leather reigns to two powerful, black stallions, also equipped with muzzle-like gas masks, dragging their hooves into the dirt. The figure closest to it opened the carriage door, allowing the other, Langdon, to step inside; then helping Mead and Mallory before climbing to the perch on the back and signaling to the driver. Mallory gripped tightly to the seat as their bumpy ride began. Mead and Langdon sat opposite to her. She noticed Mead occasionally place a hand over Langdon’s knee in a motherly gesture, and Langdon would return the sign of affection. The situation at hand became a little more clear to Mallory, or so she thought. It answered some questions, but created others; questions she didn’t want to think about. Their journey was deathly silent, though none of them could have helped that. The suits and masks prevented verbal communication. Mallory doubted they’d have much to say to each other anyway. However, Langdon, whom she could identify as the taller and thinner of the two, sat staring seemingly straight at her. The circular, artificial eyes of the gas mask were pointed directly at her. Somehow she could sense his piercing gaze through them, studying her the way they did at her interview. Her heart pounded now with as much fervor as it did then. An energy passed between them; a curious, but defensive understanding. They were two dogs sniffing each other to determine the other’s level of threat, waiting to see who would roll over and expose their belly first. Mallory was determined it would not be her, though she couldn’t say from where her resolve originated. Perhaps her survival instincts had reached their zenith now that she was alone. When he had walked towards her and commanded her to worship him, she felt a righteous fire ignite in her veins, threatening to boil her alive. The same power she’d felt with him before began to claw its way out, begging to unleash its full fury, but she kept it at bay. Now was not the time for righteous martyrdom. Either she could fight him now as she was, or live another day and grow stronger. Though, for what, Mallory didn’t know. All she knew was this inflamed desire to survive and a sense of duty renewed in her when she saw the strange woman in the mirror.  
She felt a shift beneath her. Whereas a moment ago she could feel every bump and ridge of the uneven dirt, now suddenly the ride was as if they were going over smooth glass. They continued on for several moments before jolting to a halt. The carriage door opened and the suited figure from before stood outside. Mallory balked at him. He was not wearing his mask. He was a young man with bright red, wiry hair, his face nearly entirely covered in freckles.  
“Hail, Lord Langdon, welcome back to the Sanctuary,” he said reverently.  
After helping out Mead and Langdon, he extended his hand to Mallory who hesitantly stepped out of the carriage. She couldn’t believe her eyes.  
They were standing under a massive, clear dome acting as a barrier between them and the sickly green fog. It extended seemingly forever into the sky and forever in diameter. Scattered all about the dome were panels of blazing white light. She blocked it with her hand, realizing it reminded her of a warm summer day. She looked all around. She was standing on smooth, black marble; the ground of a courtyard which sat on an expansive garden. The garden mostly contained red and white roses all arranged in various star patterns. Black columns stretched up into an archway, gorgeously designed. There were two large iron doors, decorated with crimson handles and adornments.  
“Excuse me?”  
Mallory looked to her left. The young man had stripped off his suit and was wearing a simple black tunic and pants with plain shoes, an outfit looking almost makeshift. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, “We need you to take off your suit and masks for decontamination.”  
She nodded and removed her suit and mask, handing them to the man who threw them in the carriage with the others and told the driver to “head to Decon Two”. He looked at the three of them as the carriage was driven away, though Mallory felt as if he was explaining for her sake more than Mead’s.  
“I need all of you to follow me to “Decon One” where we can make sure there’s no contamination or radiation on you. It should take no more than an hour. Unfortunately, we will have to burn the current clothes you are wearing as a precaution. But don’t worry, Lord Langdon has sent ahead preparations for new clothes. Please follow me.”  
Langdon stopped the boy and said simply, “Send for a guard to escort Ms. Mead to the robotics department. Tell them that I want every part of her checked to make sure it’s in perfect condition,” he looked over at Mead smiling, “I’m sure the Outpost didn’t provide you the best in repairs.”  
The young man nodded and tapped on a simple, metal black strip around his wrist and spoke the order into a single blinking red light. He bowed to Langdon afterward, “A guard is on his way, Lord Langdon.”  
Langdon hugged Mead with a contented grin. She stood on her toes and pecked his cheek. Mallory studied them. There was a sort of lack of pretentiousness between them; Langdon’s shoulders weren’t quite so straight and proud as he put an arm around her waist; his eyes warmed when he looked at her. Mallory felt an inexplicable bloom of empathy in her heart. They loved each other, that much was obvious.  
They waited until Mead’s escort arrived and took her beyond the iron doors. The young man then led Langdon and Mallory down a path to a large steel shed, Decon One. Upon stepping inside, Mallory was met with a minimum of 60 workers in protective suits all controlling the various stages of the decontamination process. She saw some pass by with large carts full of clothes off to be burned, others were monitoring the pressure of the water from the showerheads over the washing area, and others were simply cleaning the floors. The young man whistled sharply. The buzzing around them halted as every head turned to the three of them. He announced, “Lord Langdon has returned!” Turning back to Langdon, bowing low with his hands up in surrender, he proclaimed, “Hail Langdon!”  
The workers followed suit and echoed, “Hail, Langdon!”  
Langdon soaked in the praise, hands folded behind his back. Mallory watched him; the smug smile and proud brow. He must have sensed her staring because he turned to look at her. She panicked and quickly dropped her gaze to the floor. The workers returned to their duties and they were pushed along to begin the decontamination process.


	3. Dark Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mallory continues her tour of the Sanctuary, an evil presence makes itself known to her.

Mallory sat in a tiny white washed room with a single metal chair, a single electrical outlet, underneath which was a small black hairdryer, and a hook on the back of the door as its only decoration to boast. A woman with a tight bun on top of her head, wearing the same simple tunic as the man who’d escorted them stood behind her brushing her dried hair. She’d come in after Mallory’s thorough cleaning and helped her into a sleeveless black dress that reached to her ankles and slipping a pair of leather sandals on her feet. Mallory had attempted to insist she could do all this on her own, but the woman wouldn’t listen; she silently continued her work with no heed to Mallory’s objections. She couldn’t help laughing to herself as the woman gently ran the black comb through her hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she was pampered. She’d been Coco’s lackey for so long. Ever since…  
Mallory furrowed her brow in visible confusion. She couldn’t remember when Coco had hired her, or how.  
The girl gave her hair a tease with her fingers before putting the comb away into a little pocket square on the side of the tunic. She stepped to the side of the chair with a bow at the waist.  
“If you’ll follow me, miss.” she said in a soft, sweet voice.  
Mallory stood and followed her, passing through a small corridor of the same white-washed walls before stopping at a pair of plain steel doors. The girl turned to face away from them, hands behind her back, eyes straight ahead as if waiting. Mallory looked down the corridor to see Langdon strutting behind the red-headed man, who also had his arms crossed behind him and gaze fixed ahead. Langdon hadn’t been given a simple black ensemble like Mallory. She traced her gaze from his long graceful legs to his broad chest clad in a silver brocade waistcoat over a silk black undershirt, where a red velvet cravat with a single black gemstone in the center adorned the collar. His honey golden hair cascaded over his shoulders, immaculate. He truly looked like a prince, Mallory thought, a handsome savior from a storybook.  
He offered her a confident grin in greeting as he stopped in front of her.  
“I hope you were cared for to your satisfaction, Mallory.”  
She nodded.  
He took a step closer, “There’s no need to be so shy, Mallory. You and I will be living in rather close proximity for a long time. You might as well untie your tongue.”  
“Thank you for allowing me to live,” she’d attempted to lessen the disdain in her voice to no avail.  
He quirked his eyebrow, looking down at her, "If I remember correctly, I didn’t have too much of a choice.”  
The boiling anger shot through her veins. Her hands twitched, as if aching to act.  
“From what I remember, you were the only one with a real choice.”  
A spark lit in his eyes, of what she couldn’t tell. His mouth stayed in a thin line before stretching to a sly grin.  
He leaned in closer, tendrils of hair spilling over his shoulder, saying in an almost whisper, “I’ve learned Mallory, and soon so will you, that there are forces at work beyond human will. Some things are inevitable.”  
She gulped, a twinge of fear cutting the potency of her rage. He stood straight, turning his gaze to the escorts waiting obediently by the doors, “Shall we?”  
The two escorts opened the steel doors, revealing a long, narrow tunnel bathed in a deep red neon light. Langdon and Mallory entered, the escorts closing the doors and following behind them. The tunnel stretched on straightforward, only the sound of their steps bouncing off the walls. He more or less led their way, Mallory keeping a couple paces behind him. His hands were folded behind his back comfortably, his gait long and confident. She looked behind her to see the escorts dutifully walking side by side, collective stare aimed over Langdon’s shoulders.  
Waves of energy began to crash over Mallory. Energy that put a ball of lead in her stomach and a bullet-like shockwave shot her between the eyes. She stopped abruptly.  
The red-head was the first to run into Mallory after her sudden stop. Langdon slowly looked over his shoulder, “Is there a problem?”  
The escorts looked between themselves and Mallory in panicked confusion.  
“I’m sorry, Lord Langdon,” the man said before addressing Mallory, “Miss? Are you all right?”  
Mallory saw images on the walls, like black splatters and smears of ink, they glowed with a sickeningly artificial white light that pulsed in a rhythm like a human heart. At the end of the hallway was a door, completely soaked in the inky blackness and the same disgusting pulse. The aura that spilled from it sent pins and needles crawling up her skin. A deep, dark presence like wriggling, violating tentacles slithered from the door, reaching towards her with violent, lustful intent.  
She blinked. The vision ended.  
The escorts were at either side of her field of vision, worriedly looking her over with concerned coos. Langdon stood behind them staring into Mallory’s eyes, his head cocked slightly to the left. She trembled, but refused to look away.  
“This place is covered in darkness,” she mumbled to herself. Langdon’s lips fell into a flat line. His expression was unreadable.  
“Can you walk the rest of the way, Miss?” the woman questioned.  
Mallory nodded weakly and took a few steps forward, passing Langdon to the front of the line. He followed. She felt his gaze bore into the back of her head for the rest of their journey through the tunnel.  
—————————————————————————  
It wasn’t long after her strange vision that they finally reached the end of the tunnel. A set of 5 marble steps led up to a door, strange sigils carved into its surface. Mallory didn’t recognize them, but the lead ball in her stomach returned.  
The redhead quickly mounted the stairs and grabbed the silver handle; but he paused, placing his forehead on the center sigil for a few brief seconds. She saw his shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath before he stepped back and pulled the door open. From the opening, Mallory caught glimpses of white, clean marble. Langdon led the line up the stairs, the redhead bowing as he passed.  
Stepping through the doorway was the same as stepping into an entirely different universe. She’d gone from a tight space, soaked in a single monochrome red to what could’ve passed as a corporate office lobby, just on an overblown scale. The floors were white marble, absorbing the clacking of heels and chatter of various people, some in regular clothes, some in those servantile tunics, and sending the noise ascending to the high dome ceiling of marble and glass, which allowed the artificial sunlight to stream in. The beams of the golden light from the ceiling led her eyes immediately to the center of the room, where a 10 foot statue towered. It was carved from pure black stone, shined and polished to perfection. A goat man sat on a throne, large angel wings spanned three feet from its back; a pentagram rising above it. The goat man held up his forefinger, ring finger, and thumb at his right, and the left hung outstretched, palm outward. Its cloven feet were crossed, a large cloth draped over its lap. A spear of horror pierced her chest, and she gulped to moisten her rapidly drying throat.  
She hadn’t noticed, but she’d taken a few steps in front of Langdon in her distracted amazement. He had taken to studying her in her awe. A small, proud smirk graced his lips as he judged her spreading reverential panic.  
“Do you like it, Mallory?”  
She looked at him with a start. He was tracing his gaze over the statue.  
“This Sanctuary houses the world’s best architects, artists, and designers. It’s only appropriate their best work was put into building a complex dedicated to the one who gave them their talent and success.”  
He looked into her eyes, “Not to mention their survival.”  
With that he began walking passed the statue, the redhead catching up to him. He turned to see that Mallory stood frozen in place.  
“Come on,” he bid in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.  
Mallory and the young woman followed behind him.  
The other occupants of the room ceased speaking as soon as Langdon was noticed; they bowed deeply as he passed them. Upon noticing Mallory, their brows would furrow in confusion, but they said nothing.  
“Hail, Langdon!”  
Langdon halted and looked to the left. A portly man with a black goatee, wearing a long black robe approached them, bowing continuously before taking a knee before him, “You have returned to us, thank Satan.”  
“Have you assembled everyone into the Temple?” He asked blankly.  
“Yes, my lord,” the man answered, face towards the ground, “Your servants await you.”  
He looked towards the few groups now gathered around the room, not-so subtly watching them.  
“Apparently not all of them,” he told him in a serious tone.  
The groveling man looked up towards the people, who froze in fear, knowing that they weren’t where they were supposed to be.  
“A few stragglers, my lord,” he flailed his arm at them in a silent order to get to the Temple immediately. They all scattered.  
“The moment you arrive in the Temple, all of your servants will be awaiting your word.”  
Langdon stepped past the man, still on his knees, “Come with me, won’t you, Mallory?”  
Once again, she followed, unsure of what other course of action she could take. The two escorts fell behind them obediently.  
This place was larger even than it appeared. She followed him for another 10 minutes down large, opulent corridors and grand pathways before reaching two long, black doors with the same sigils as the one in the tunnel etched into their grain along with other trimmings. The two escorts opened the doors for them and Mallory was met once again with another universe entirely. The walls were blood red, stain glass windows lining them with depictions of horrific and gory scenes of hellfire and destruction. The floor was a slick black marble, a long table covered in a red cloth lined with black candles was set at the front of the ebony wood pews, numbering hundreds, including the ones upon a balcony she noticed as she walked further into the room. Sitting in these pews was a great crowd of people of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities. Some faces she recognized because of their celebrity status, actors, actresses. But she picked these out like needles in haystacks. The majority of the crowd were new faces to her. They stared at her and Langdon as they made their way down the aisle to the front. Behind the long table was a black marble slab, thick iron shackles on either side of it. On the back wall was the largest stain glass window depicting the same goat man she’d seen, a black iron pentagram adorning its top.  
The dark energy she’d felt in the tunnel washed over her again, threatening to knock her to the ground.  
Langdon stopped and faced the crowd at the front, Mallory and the escorts opting to stand by his side.  
“Hail, Langdon!” The crowd chanted in unison.  
“Members of Sanctuary,” he addressed, voice reverberating loudly throughout the Temple, “I have returned from my excursion to Outpost 3 with a new and permanent guest,” he indicated to her, “Mallory, the lucky last survivor of Outpost 3. I hope you all will welcome Mallory and treat her like you would any other resident of the Sanctuary.”  
She felt uneasy at how a light chuckle swept through the crowd at that statement.  
“Please return to your usual activities and prepare for tonight’s celebration,” he lifted his arms, “And thank my father for your good fortune and your next breath.”  
“Hail Satan! Hail, Langdon!” They chanted loudly over and over again as he soaked it in.  
Tears suddenly overtook Mallory. She’d never felt more lost or out of control. But they were silent as she, Langdon, and the escorts exited the Temple as the crowd still chanted, “Hail, Langdon! Hail, Satan!”  
—————————————————————————  
Mallory had never been more grateful than when Langdon had dismissed her to go to her designated quarters. Anything to get her away from him and the ever increasing sorrow and fear that rushed through her body. The woman who’d helped her led her to an elevator, as gaudy as the rest of this place, and took them to the sixth floor.  
“The sixth floor is one of The Sanctuary’s housing complexes,” she explained as they rode up, “I feel it necessary to inform you that they are the lowest of the apartments for regular residents, it was the only one with an open room available after…an unfortunate accident.”  
Mallory didn’t respond, starting to wipe away the tears. The woman looked at her briefly, as if wanting to say something, but turned away again with a hesitant grimace. The elevator door opened and she walked her through a series of small hallways, each with different apartments side by side. For being the “lowest” of the apartments, Mallory still concluded that she’d never be able to afford even a lamp from any of them. The woman stopped at an apartment at the end of a hall, labeled 712. She scanned her band on her wrist in front of a little box with a red light which was in place of a door handle. It opened automatically and she stepped aside for Mallory to enter first. Inside was a modern looking studio loft, painted with soft hues of brown and gold. A white love seat and matching chair sat in front of a sliding glass door with beige curtains, a small coffee table in between them. A little kitchen nook was to the left of that, granite countertops and stainless steel adorning it. Two other rooms were to her right; a bathroom, decorated with marble and gold with an old-fashioned stand alone bathtub, and a small frosted glass shower. The other room was the bedroom. A soft, queen bed took up most of the room, covered in the same browns and golds as the living room. The woman stood just inside the still open door, arms at her sides, waiting.  
“You can close the door if you want,” Mallory told her quietly.  
She did so, immediately returning to her neutral position.  
“What’s your name?”  
The woman blinked, as if not understanding her question.  
“I’m Mallory.”  
She still didn’t answer.  
“Are you staying here too?”  
“I have been assigned as your personal assistant for the duration of your life here, or until the time when you request another.”  
A chuckle, not completely absent of mirth escaped Mallory’s lips, but along with it, a fresh tear.  
“I’m sorry, I guess…I’m not used to…that.”  
The woman nodded, “How may I be of service, Miss Mallory?”  
She felt so awkward being the one giving orders. She indicated to the chair, “You can sit down, I guess.”  
She did as she was told. Mallory awkwardly walked around the room, inspecting it. She nearly jumped when the woman finally answered her question.  
“My name is Rhoda.”


	4. High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sanctuary holds a massive celebration to honor Michael’s return. Mallory meets a new friend.

Mallory didn’t have long to settle into her new home when a knock came from the door. Rhoda quickly rushed forward past Mallory who was already making her way and opened it. Outside the threshold was an older African American woman, short and stout; brown freckles were dotted across her round cheeks and nose, framed by dark curly q’s with stripes of gray splashed throughout. She wore a black, purple brocaded vest over a flowy white shirt, a violet skirt decorated with black silk trimmings stopped below her knees in the front and fell past her ankles in the back. Her shoes were royal purple, large black stones sparkling in their center. In her right hand she carried a large, worn leather bag.  
“Hello, dear.”  
She entered without Mallory having the chance to grant permission. As Rhoda shut the door, the woman held out her hand, “You must be Mallory. My name is Lydia Porfirio, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”  
Mallory took her hand with a small twinge of uncertainty, until taking another moment to think and realizing where she recognized her.  
“Yes!” She exclaimed with a smile, “Coco sent me to pick up your summer collection that she got for her birthday.”  
“Coco?”  
“My…” her face fell, a wave of further realization crashing over her, “former employer.”  
Lydia patted her hand sympathetically, “She didn’t survive, I’m assuming?”  
She shook her head and muttered, “No.”  
She released her hand and set down her bag, saying, “You look devastated over it. I’ve known too many assistants who would’ve loved to murder their employers. Hell, I know I did when I was working for some no talent hacks before selling my soul to ol’ Beelzebub,” she removed a pair of black gloves and set them on the bed, “So, I suppose you two must’ve been good friends.”  
She began opening the bag, pulling out measures and sewing kits and patterns; all the while Mallory watched, dumbfounded, unsure how to voice the forming ideas in her mind.  
“So, this is all a Satanist thing.”  
She stopped. She turned her face to her with a wry smile, “What was your first hint?”  
Mallory hesitated, then asked in a low voice, “What does that make Mr. Langdon?”  
Lydia cocked her head to the side, as if registering her question. She slowly stood straight, sudden realization in her eyes that Mallory truly didn’t know, “Michael Langdon is the Antichrist.”  
Her head spinned as she grappled for the edge of the love seat, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”  
“Now, hold on,” Lydia grabbed her by the arms and gently helped her sit down, “just take a deep breath, honey.”  
She threw her head back and commanded Rhoda, “Go get her some water.”  
She rushed to complete her task and knelt down in front of Mallory, presenting the glass before her. She waved it away, rubbing her temples, her breathing shallow.  
“Why am I here? Why didn’t he just kill me?”  
She wished she’d stayed dead the first time. She wished she never had to learn about Coco. Everything she knew was twisting and morphing before her eyes and she didn’t understand why.  
“You must be something very special,” Lydia consoled, “Only the richest people got a chance to come to The Sanctuary. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you really are a lucky girl.”  
She tried to chuckle, but it only came out as a mirthless, throaty grunt. She rubbed her eyes, a sharp pinprick headache forming at the base of her skull.  
“I hate to do this to you,” Lydia stood, twirling a tuft of hair, “but I do need to start working if we want you in something presentable for the celebration.”  
She looked up at her, “What?”  
“I was sent here to make you a dress. I’m assuming you just came here with the clothes on your back.”  
Mallory shook her head, disgusted and tired, “I can’t.”  
Lydia answered sympathetically, but with a warning undertone, “It’s not optional, dear.”  
She wrung her hands and closed her eyes, she never remembered praying to anyone or anything before, but now found herself calling out into the universe. Like an ant screaming to the top of a mountain, begging for anyone at all to hear her and help.  
“Ok.”  
*.*.*  
The grand ballroom of The Sanctuary sprawled the length of a football field, its floor pure black marble, shined to reflect the domed ceiling towering above. Chandeliers of silver hung from the rafters, red rubies spilling down them like drops of blood. Murals were scrawled across the entire circumference of the ceiling, resembling the art of the Sistine Chapel, but with a much darker overtone. The people of Babel stood in pride, beholding their beautiful tower that touched the stars, defying the will of God; another, the grizzly scene of the murder of Abel, his brother Cain violently crushing his head with a stone. But in the center of the dome was the most vivid of them all. The scene was a perfect cloudscape, hues of gold and violet and orange dazzled and danced between puffs of white, the sky above radiant with white light, with the exception of one lone aberration. A figure with his arms outstretched, encrusted head to toe in clothes of fine silk and jewels, wings sprinkled with starlight, golden hair swirling around his angelic face, branches of lightening cracked around him to form a terrifying halo. Below him, his reverent epithet, the words, “Lucifer, The Morning Star, Conqueror of Earth, Harbinger of the Apocalypse”  
The denizens filled the room, clad in gothic balllgowns and crimson waistcoats. The women’s hair was pinned and braided with jewels, and the men wore ostentatious rings of black diamond and silver, every outfit attempting to outdo the other. Long tables of rich food and decadent wine were placed all around. However, all eyes were focused on one man who stayed off to the side, surveying the crowd of his loyal subjects. Michael Langdon hung back from the crowd, arms behind his back in typical fashion. He was every inch an imposing, demonic king. Upon his head he wore a crown of silver thorns, entwining into three spirals at the top, tipped with rubies. His flowing, golden hair framed piercing eyes rimmed in black; black eyeshadow sexily smoked out on their corners. He wore a long, velvet coat, decorated with silver buttons and accents of leather over a black shirt with a thin mesh V sliding down his broad chest; a silver pentagram pendant around his neck, and leather boots, laced in silver.  
Men and women eyed him, some with reverence, others with lust, but all watched him with hungry and desirous eyes. A particular rumor was buzzing around about the Devil’s son and the Cooperative’s plans for him, and all wanted to know how their King and Savior would go about fulfilling the plan.  
But their heads turned with his as he stared awestruck at the ballroom’s threshold. Mallory stood there, escorted by Rhoda, panic seizing her as all eyes latched onto her at once. Lydia was a fast worker, though she had worked from a previously created pattern. Mallory’s gown transformed from a black satin bodice at the top to red strips swirling around the bottom like flames, her dark hair curled and done up with red jewels. She might’ve been the most simplest dressed there, but she might as well have been the only one in the room with the way Langdon’s eyes were locked on her. They tried to ignore him and continue conversation as he strolled towards her. Langdon, sensing their gaze, turned and waved them off, signaling that they best continue their revelry, and mind their own business; but some still gave Mallory dirty looks.  
He appraised her; clinically, or so she thought. She balled her hands into fists, trying to hide how badly she was shaking.  
“Your dress is lovely. Lydia works well under pressure.”  
He tilted his head like a curious owl spying on his prey from up in his hideout; icy blue eyes drilling into her with such scrutiny that a pleasant heat pooled into her core, mixing with frozen shards of fear.  
His lips pulled into a genuine smile, “May I have this dance?”  
She tore her eyes away from his gaze and took his hand with trembling fingers, panic and rage swirling in her gut. Violins began their sweet, hypnotic tune. With one flowing movement, his left hand gripped her waist with a firm, but gentle touch, while gracefully whirling them onto the ballroom floor. She felt his eyes burning into the top of her head, her gaze fixed on the steps of their feet on the black marble floor.  
“It’s very rude to not look your partner in the eyes.”  
When she said nothing in response, he stopped abruptly. She braced for the worst, terrified that she had angered him, and would be severely punished for her insolence. Instead, his hand snaked further around her waist and up her back, drawing her closer til there was no space between them. His fingers pressed into the bare nape of her neck, a strong pressure, yet teasing. His warm, full lips made contact with the curve of her neck, pressing a tender, innocent kiss. Without her consent, a gasp of surprised pleasure escaped her throat. Within an instant he moved back to his original posture, a devious smirk adorned his face now that her eyes were well-fixed on him. His hand slipped back to her waist, but no effort was made to separate their bodies. They returned to their dancing without a word, the ghost of his lips haunting the dip of her neck.  
“Did you ever dream of this when you were a child, Mallory?” He asked, his eyes lingering on her neck, brushing his tongue over his bottom lip, “Being in a beautiful gown, at a ball, in the arms of a king.”  
Suddenly, a vision came upon her. Black, bat-like wings stretched out from behind Langdon’s form, spanning across the entire room. Serpentine black horns climbed from his head. His eyes became as red as blood. The same grasping darkness she’d encountered in the tunnel sprung up from the ground and entwined itself around her legs.  
“And the fact that the same king holding you close,” he continued with a heady voice, “Could twitch his finger and end your existence, does that scare you?” His mouth twisted into a grin, “Excite you? You know who I am, what I am capable of,” he leaned in closer and whispered, “Are you frightened, Mallory?”  
She gulped back tears, the terror threatening to overtake her. The darkness tightened its grip.  
“You will speak to me,” he commanded with a dangerously gruff voice.  
She grit her teeth and looked him in the eye, power coursing through her, pushing back the darkness.  
“I am not afraid of you.”  
When the words left her mouth, the vision vanished. The normal sights, sounds, and smells wafted all around her, bringing her back to reality. Langdon took a step back, still holding her right hand. He tilted his head in a slight bow, as if agreeing to a challenge.  
“Good.”


	5. Uproar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory’s display of power disturbs the Sanctuary’s celebration, and Michael’s sense of control.

The Temple was buzzing with chatter as people filed in, some fighting for the front row pews. Mallory and Rhoda squeezed their way through the back, falling victim to drunken shoves or rude comments.  
“Why are we all in here?” Mallory asked when they were able to slip into a back pew.  
“A sacrifice is being offered to Satan and Lord Langdon,” Rhoda answered cooly, “in thanks for his safe return.”  
“Sacrifice?” She felt sick.  
“Chosen from those who serve,” she nodded, as if it were the most natural thing, “To be given to Lord Langdon in sacrifice is the highest honor.”  
Mallory grimaced and looked over the room, most were seated. The black candles on the table at the front were all lit, as well as black candelabras that now surrounded the room and set beside the black marble slab, which was elevated to be visible from the back. Cushioned on a lush crimson pillow which was placed in the center of the table was the miniature skull of a goat, and an iron scepter with two silver serpents entwined around it, a crystal orb sitting as its crown jewel.  
A hush fell over them as the heavy creaking of the back doors echoed throughout the chamber. There in all his dark regalia was Langdon, his head held proudly, eyes glowing with dark power as he strutted in the middle of the aisle with calm, kingly grace. Behind, him a line worshippers, robed in black chanting dark whispers and swinging incense from a silver censer, marched like a grim parade. Their bass profundo rhythmic singing gripped Mallory’s heart and pulsed like a hand squeezing the life from her. Langdon circled around the black slab and faced the congregation. His eyes somehow directly finding Mallory, and pinning her where she sat. Darkness flashed in her vision for a moment.  
The line of chanters split to either side of Langdon. The bearded man she’d seen confront Langdon when they’d first entered The Sanctuary, approached with a scarlet robe and clapped it around Langdon’s shoulders. Two others approached on either side, each handing him the skull and scepter in either hand. The bearded man uncorked an ornate, glass bottle and reached up, pouring olive oil over Langdon, which soaked into his hair and skin as it ran down.  
The chanting grew louder.  
“Hail Langdon!” The bearded man cried.  
“Hail Langdon!” The congregation repeated.  
“Hail Satan!”  
The chanting glided over their screams of “Hail Satan!”  
Mallory’s entire body was as heavy as lead. She braced herself for another vision, her knuckles white, gripping the side of the pew.  
“Bring the sacrifice!” The bearded man ordered.  
All eyes turned back to the aisle where Mallory saw a lean man, with a hood over his head being led like livestock down the aisle by another robed figure, naked, hands tied behind his back with thick cords, cutting into his skin. Mallory feels her heart thumping, veins freezing. The next moments blur.  
He is splayed out on the marble, shackled. His hood is removed.  
It was the red headed kid who Mallory met before.  
Langdon was given a dagger, lifting it above the smooth flesh of the man’s chest.  
Her whole body ignited with energy.  
She held out her hand, screaming. The tiny flames of the candles surrounding them shot upward into a huge engulfing fire; it encircled the slab, putting a barrier around the still shackled man. Langdon fell to the ground, hastily escaping the flames. The room was filled with screams. Some frantically waved their arms and told others to look up.  
The man’s shackles had been burned off, and he was suddenly lifted from the slab, floating midair. He was yelling in short, breathy gasps, eyes bulging.  
Rhoda watched in terrified awe as Mallory, equally afraid and amazed, let the naked, scared man onto the ground in the middle of the aisle. She put her arm down, stumbling backwards as if all strength had been drained from her. The fire dissipated, leaving blackened scorch marks tainting the immaculate floor.  
Langdon stood, mouth agape. His eyes immediately found two exiting figures, running to the doors in the remaining chaos; one in a black tunic, the other a familiar face in a ball gown, her wide eyes staring back in dis belief.  
He watched them leave, his hand tightening into a fist. He threw his other arm into the air.  
“Silence!” He bellowed over the panicking crowd.  
They obeyed immediately, all staring at him with terror in their eyes. The sacrifice had fallen to his knees, curled into a submissive pose, as if awaiting oncoming punishment.  
Langdon looked beside him, realizing his crown had fallen from his head. He calmly stooped down to place it back upon his brow. The crown securely in place, he strolled, deliberately, but slowly towards the cowering man, his hands instinctively folded behind him. All eyes watched him.  
“Look up,” he commanded once he stood over the scared man.  
He did as he was told, shakily, with shallow breath. Langdon’s gaze bore into his terrified face; his own disturbance masked by regal inspection.  
After an eternity, he spoke, loud enough for all to hear, “My father has spared you,” he leaned in closer, “for now.”  
The Residents are told to clear out of the Temple, cleanup would begin in the morning. Langdon retired to his own chambers without a word, and no one dared disturb him.


	6. Mea Maxima Culpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael Langdon struggles with his torrent of emotions and uncertainties about Mallory.

Michael Langdon had mastered the art of ordered chaos.  
Ms. Venable had been right, “Order on the outside does wonders to keep the chaos safely on the inside.” It’s how The Sanctuary was able to run smoothly. His entire speech about there not being need for rules anymore could only go as far as previous moral systems had been established. Humans themselves are chaotic beasts, but even among lawless there is law; a hierarchy of needs vs wants, what got you farther ahead, what would push you back. It was in their best interest to be collaborative among themselves. Their illusions of order and religion and social class gave them borders in which to exercise their chaos. The Sanctuary was essentially the largest, most expensive illusion that humanity had created. Inside of it, the creme de la creme of European-dictated superiority had created a microcosm of true human nature: ordered chaos. And the King of this microcosm was Michael Langdon. He was a disaster of a being, full of abandonment issues and a deep seeded need for love and affection, but no one was ever going to know. He was the most powerful person waking the planet, and he would slaughter anyone who dared defy his authority. He made a vow to himself that he would never be weak again. And for all these years, that inner turmoil of the battle between the Antichrist and the scared, lonely child had been safely locked away deep into his conscience. For all these years, he’d controlled his emotions, rationing them like supplies to soldiers, keeping himself disciplined, calm, and in control.  
Mallory shattered his illusion.  
Just when he thought the chaos was retreating, he’d see her eyes looking up at him, flaming with righteous wrath, hear her words of defiance, sense the raw, unfiltered power emanating from her…  
And suddenly he would lose control of himself. His mind filled with raging, uncontrollable bedlam. He knew he could wrap his fingers around her throat and shatter her spine with a twitch of his wrist, and yet he also knew she’d stare him down all the while, afraid but defiant, only fueling his ire.  
He wanted to break her bones. To tear her limb from limb. To kill the only threat remaining to his kingdom. To carve out her heart and devour it, licking her blood from his fingers.  
But his inner discord erupted in another way as well. With every thought of her, his body would erupt in a frenzied lust.  
Even as a teenager, sexual need was a tool to be used, a potent spell he used to entrap the weak. Any longing in himself, as rare as it was, was easily ignored or used to his advantage. He’d had experiences with different people, men and women, though for him purely out of curiosity, only used as leverage. He’d find release, but it was all mechanical; the pathetic, annoying begging and whining from his partners a boring irritation.  
He’d never known anything like what he felt for this stupid little witch.  
Sharp shards of desire split him in two the moment they met; it was irrational, sudden. He was caught off guard by her presence. He couldn’t hold himself back from simply touching her, from getting on his knees before her. She had been so soft, her lips parted so innocently. He had tried tearing his eyes away from them, like a saint from temptation, but he couldn’t. He knew he’d damned himself even further when he’d allowed himself to kiss her neck at the celebration, an act which he cursed himself for every second since. He could still taste the salt of her skin on his lips, hear that soft gasp escape her lips, and let his hand wander slowly down his body at the thought, leaving teasing touches on his sensitive flesh; stifling pathetic whimpers.  
He knelt down in his chamber, naked. His blood spilling into the divots of a pentagram carved into his floor, looking nearly black in the candlelight.  
He bit his lip to muzzle his pained groans as the knife dug into his flesh, “Bless me, Dark Lord, with vigor and vigilance.”  
All around him were murals of a great scarlet dragon, seven horned, writhing heads slithering out from a single body, each adorned with glittering crowns, diamonds and jewels dripping from their brows; several black eyes void of anything except hunger and malevolence gleamed as long, slim forked tongues wriggled from their gaping, razor rimmed maws. Some heads devoured screaming humans cowering beneath it, others were raised triumphant to the blackened sky, billows of smoke rising from their throats. And one, in the center, stared straight into Michael as he continued his supplication.  
“Oh, Grant me, mighty Lucifer, strength, fill me with your dark power and consume my weaknesses and frailties in its wake.”  
The flickering light of the candles began morphing into a dim black.  
“She’s gotten stronger. Something inside her was awakened.”  
A dark, pulsing hum reverberated from the walls.  
“I have to destroy her. Father,” he began crawling towards the mural, his voice more desperate, “give me eyes to see clearly the path you would have me take.”  
Her aura had shifted from the first time they’d met. Like the disturbed ground after an earthquake, something had been shaken free inside of her. It was white-hot, nearly unbearable to stand, yet underneath it’s intensity lay a beckoning gentleness. She was a pillar of fire guiding a wandering exodus.  
Even his prayers would be filled with distraction. He would see visions of her, lovely, dancing visions in the flames, feel her disarming touch brushing against him, hear her voice caressing his ear like a gentle sigh. She would glide about the room, a white, hazy specter, her phantom fingers grazing his cheeks and lips. She would whisper. Her words never distinguishable, but he could still discern their intention; kindness and love, reassurance and comfort, compassion which drew unwilling tears from his eyes. Oh, what a heavenly seduction.  
He reached up to touch the head of the dragon watching him, leaving smudges of blood on the wall. He threw his head back screaming into the dragon’s stare, “Father, hear me! Rise from the depths and bathe me in your devouring wickedness, I beg you,” he slammed his fists against the wall, “Father! Strengthen me!”  
He would scrape and claw at the enchanting ghost, cursing it and calling upon the forces of Hell to wipe her from existence. He wanted her bruised, bleeding, and shaking. Whether from pain or pleasure was a tangled mess in his mind.  
“Show me what I am to do, Father!”  
He dragged himself to each of the four walls of the room, pressing stained fingerprints into each scene of the mural as if searching for a message.  
“Give me a sign!” He roared, pounding his open palm one last time into the wall.  
He stopped, sliding his hand over to inspect the details beneath. A woman, taking shelter in a cave, hiding from the beast. She was dressed in a white robe, crown of stars about her head, beauteous face gazing down at a bundle held to her breast.  
A baby, glowing with radiant light.  
* * *  
Three months passed since the incident at the Temple. Mallory had barricaded herself in her room, afraid of being confronted by Langdon, unsure of how to establish any sense of normalcy in this environment, and drained of all energy.  
“I’ll get the door,” she stated out of habit.  
Mallory paused. She hadn’t heard a knock.  
Her hand was reaching for the door handle when two polite knocks came from the other side.  
Mallory stood upon seeing her visitor.  
The redhead.  
He stood bashfully with his hands folded in front of him, slightly twitching his nose, bowing his head.  
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “may I come in?”  
Rhoda looked to Mallory for confirmation; she nodded and Rhoda motioned for for him to step inside.  
“What’s your name?” Mallory blurted out as soon as the door was closed. She’d been worried ever since that night that Langdon had punished him for what she’d done.  
He was taken aback, “My…name is Bartholomew.”  
She repeated it, smiling, relieved, “I’m Mallory.”  
He nodded, confused, “I know.”  
She crossed her arms, clearing her throat, “How can I help you?”  
He looked her up and down cautiously “I saw what you did at the Temple.”  
She bit her lip.  
“I haven’t told anyone,” he quickly reassured, “and you don’t need to worry about me doing so.”  
Rhoda moved closer to Mallory, keeping an eye on him.  
He continued fearfully, “I have never seen that kind of power outside of Lord Langdon, and I don’t know who or what you are…but I’ve come here to ask a favor of you.”  
She put down her arms, trying to hide her eagerness, “Anything.”  
He gulped, “I will be sacrificed to Lord Langdon, “when” is not yet determined, but I was chosen. And I would beg you to allow it to happen without interruption,” he bowed his head, “I mean no disrespect.”  
Her heart sank, “Why would you want to be sacrificed?”  
He looked up at her, ad answered measuredly, with serious eyes, “I was chosen.”  
She huffed our a mirthless chuckle, trying to push back sudden tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, “I don’t understand.”  
“Miss Mallory!” Rhoda ran to her side.  
She held up her hand, wiping at her eyes, but didn’t push her away when she placed her hands on her shoulders, “I’m fine.”  
Bartholomew waited awkwardly, beginning to rock back and forth on his heels.  
“Look,” Mallory finally said, “I have been thrown into two completely new situations all at once. I lost my previous life, which for some reason I can’t even remember, I lost a very…” she almost choked up again, but pushed through, “someone very important to me, and I’ve been seeing and doing so many weird things lately that I don’t understand. I feel like there’s something trying to reveal itself but I don’t know what, I’m just so scared, and I feel so…alone,” she tightened her fist, “And I couldn’t watch Langdon kill again.”  
Silence fell over them. Mallory looked down, embarrassed at her outburst.  
“You must forgive me, Miss Mallory,” Bartholomew offered gently, “I’ve never met a person outside of the Sanctuary, it never occurred to me that you would not understand what’s happening.”  
She furrowed her brows, “You never met someone outside of the Sanctuary?”  
He shook his head, “No, I was born here. All of those who serve were born here.”  
“How? You gotta be at least eighteen years old.”  
He looked up in thought, “Well, I said born, it is more appropriate to say that I was…grown.”  
She rubbed her face with her hands and sat down on the loveseat, indicating for him to do the same, “Can you explain?”  
He sat across from her as Rhoda stood behind, watching Mallory.  
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that the residents of the Sanctuary are those who could afford it. The richest, brightest, and the best in all the world, and unless they paid for their own assistants and maids…they were going to be without people taking care of them. Everyone here is used to being waited on, so they decided to utilize their power to create servants, ones that would be taught from day one to serve them, to be obedient, and to follow the Dark Lord’s commands without hesitation.”  
Her stomach twisted, “They made a slave class.”  
He shrugged, “We’re called Those Who Serve. We were made from DNA samples from all over the world, some even from the Residents.”  
She went back in her mind to Outpost 3, to Emily and Timothy.  
“There were two survivors at Outpost 3, Before Langdon showed up. They said they were there because of their “perfect DNA”. Is that what they were picked out for? Their DNA to make…servants?”  
He nodded, thinking, “It would make sense that The Cooperative would choose backup gene pools. I’m sure there would have been many individuals at the different outposts placed their solely for their useful DNA.”  
She sighed slowly, trying to fit all the information in her head. She began to wonder if the individual Outposts were ever supposed to last at all. What is the Sanctuary was the ultimate goal all along?  
“I realize it is hard to comprehend,” he continued, “but it is my highest honor to be chosen as a sacrifice to Lord Langdon.  
She bit the inside of her cheek and answered, defeated, “I understand.”  
He left after that. Mallory curled herself up into a ball on the loveseat, not moving for several hours, just staring at the wall.  
Rhoda ventured to disturb her, lightly walking up and asking in a small voice, “Miss Mallory?”  
She gave a disgusted grunt, “Just call me Mallory, for God’s sake.”  
She balked, but stepped back and bowed respectfully, “Forgive me.”  
She sat up immediately, her voice apologetic, “No, I’m…” she sighed, “what is it?”  
She looked at her for a moment, then knelt down at her feet, “I would beg for your own safety not to interfere with The Sanctuary’s rituals. The Residents are as religious as they are materialistic. If they believe you to be a threat to their way of life…”  
Mallory gazed into her pleading eyes and patted her shoulder, hoping she would accept that.  
Mallory couldn’t let Langdon hurt anyone else. She couldn’t bear it.


	7. False Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where do loyalties lie?

“Hello, Mallory!”  
Lydia strutted into Mallory’s room, pushing past a caught-off guard Rhoda.  
Mallory stood, surprised, but pleasantly so, “Hi.”   
Rhoda closed the door, eyeing the woman suspiciously.   
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Mallory told her as she was pulled into a hug. She didn’t return it, more so from shock than unwillingness.  
She pulled back, “Well, I came to ask a favor, one that I think will be mutually beneficial.”   
Mallory furrowed her brows, but nodded for her to continue.  
“Mallory, fashion has always been my deepest passion in life, but I am so tired of these stuck up, socialite bitches who only know how to complain. I truly enjoyed making you a dress all those months ago, and well, I was hoping you’d be willing to be my muse. I’ve been feeling so stifled lately, and if I may say, you have this…innocent beauty about you, something very alien yet…real, genuine.”  
Taken aback, she offered a shy, confused smile, “Thank you.”  
Rhoda circled around behind Mallory, eyeing Lydia like a mama bear watching a hunter who’s gotten too close for comfort to her cubs. Mallory didn’t notice as Lydia flitted and touched her hair and face, “There’s just this…I don’t know, aura around you. Oh, please say you will, Mallory. You’ll have my eternal thanks.”  
Mallory shrugged, having nothing to lose, “Sure. It’d be an honor.”  
Lydia’s smile grew wider as she unloaded her bag onto the nearby counter, already off into rambling, “Perfect. Now I already have a couple designs in mind. Some are just everyday wear, and then there are some for balls and big events, we have those so often here…”  
Rhoda stayed close to Mallory’s side.  
* * *  
Michael’s personal office was located on the first floor of the main complex, where the majority of the business side of the Cooperative was operated. It was, of course, the largest of them all, and the most grand. Rumor was it was modeled and inspired after The King’s Office in the Palace of Versailles; rich, detailed oak desk and cabinets, perfectly polished floors, almost like glass, gold an velvet decorating every surface, all bathed in warm light. Michael sat in his leather chair at his desk, a large French window framed by crimson curtains behind him. The artificial sunlight streaming in, casting a soft halo around his head. A stack of papers lay in his lap, but his interest in them was cursory at best. Every so often, he would take to tapping his finger on his chair’s arm, gaze far away.   
“You haven’t been very talkative lately.”  
Michael was drawn from his inner thoughts to look at Ms. Mead who had walked behind the desk, looking at him with a motherly concern.  
“I never knew I was talkative,” he said pulling one side of his mouth into a small smirk.  
She patted his shoulder, “I’m sure if I had more memories of you from before, I could contradict that.”  
He reached up and placed his hand over hers, trying to hide the twinge of sadness in his eyes.  
“Something’s on your mind,” she continued, walking around to sit in a small leather chair, “It’s that girl, isn’t it.”  
He bit the inside of his cheek, but gave no response. He knew it was more of a statement than a question.   
She leaned in, “Is she one of the witches who escaped?”  
He nodded, “Yes, she must be. But…”  
“What?”  
He stood, walking to the window and staring out into nowhere, deep in thought, “There’s something else. She’s something else.”   
Mead kept her gaze steadily on the back of his head, as if trying to read his mind. He liked keeping to himself, despite how he told her how close they were. It was as if something had once again separated them.  
Perhaps he could sense that she’d lied at the Outpost.  
She’d told him that she knew where her place was, by his side in this new world. That wasn’t true. She’d never felt more out of place than at this so-called Sanctuary. At the Outpost, things were simple and clear. Venable ran things strict, but efficient, and Mead was her right hand. Venable had been the closest thing to a friend she could remember, but at his command, she’d shot her dead. Here, she felt next to useless, she wasn’t in control of anything, and this entire place was run with too much bureaucracy. Mead often had passing thoughts that perhaps Michael hadn’t so much had a problem with how she had run the Outpost, but that she could have no real authority, and yet have such a tighter grip of control than he did. Mead kept these thoughts to herself, knowing that in the end she had no power to change things. Michael was still the beautiful boy, the idealized image in her mind of long forgotten, and cobbled-together rosy memories.  
And perhaps that’s all she was to him as well.  
“Did you ever notice any deformities on Mallory?” he asked, breaking the long silence, “Scars or birthmarks?”   
She shrugged, “I never paid much attention to her at all. She never seemed all that special to me.”  
He turned to face her, brow taught with curiosity, “Perhaps that was the point. To hide her in plain sight.”  
* * *  
Lydia had practically given Mallory a wardrobe to last a few months. An outfit for every occassion it seemed. Although the ensemble she wore today was probably one of her favorites. It was black, sheer in some places, draped over elegantly, decorated with silver stars and moons. She even had given her a little silver star hairpin. She stared at herself in the mirror, indulging her vanity briefly. She’d never owned anything designer before. It certainly felt more expensive than what she was used to.  
“I feel like a…goth princess or something,” she told Lydia with a smile; who stood beside her, admiring her work.  
“You certainly look like a princess.”  
Rhoda slipped on a simple silver chain with a pearl pendant around Mallory’s neck. She looked Mallory up and down with a cautious smile.  
“Well, twirl around!” Lydia encouraged, “Give us a fashion show!”  
Mallory laughed and spun with a flourish, picking up the hem between her fingers and strutting around the room, much to Rhoda’s delight.   
Lydia cheered, “Beautiful!”  
Mallory leaned dramatically against the chair, throwing her hand over her head, “Am I a model yet?”  
Rhoda clapped, feeling such joy at seeing Mallory smile.  
She whirled out back into the middle of the room, “Coco would be so jealous–”  
She stopped, her smile faltering. Rhoda’s heart sinking with it.  
She looked at Lydia and said more quietly, “Thank you, Lydia. It’s beautiful. Everything you’ve made me is beautiful.”  
She waved her off, “Oh, no, thank you. I haven’t had this much fun making clothes in over a year. You’re much easier to get along with than some of the others here.”   
She began packing up her supplies, suddenly looking up and telling her, “You know, maybe you should be out and about today, show off to all these rich folks how beautiful you are.”  
She nodded, the sadness obvious in her tone, “Thank you, Lydia.”  
“Perhaps she’s right, Mi-Mallory,” Rhoda said as she closed the door behind Lydia, “You have been cooped up in here for so long. Maybe it would be beneficial to have a change of scenery? Some fresh air?”  
Mallory gave her an incredulous look.  
“And you do look lovely.”  
She smiled, “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to learn to get around this place at some point. So, tell me, what’s there to do around here for fun?”  
She paused to think, “There’s a theatre.”  
“Of course there is.”  
Rhoda laughed, “The Cooperative has a collection of nearly any movie you can imagine. Sometimes they hold special theme nights.”  
Her eyes lit up, “What, like for Star Wars?”  
She nodded, “Yes, I have heard of that.”  
“Have you ever seen it?”  
“No.”  
Mallory’s jaw dropped, “You’ve never seen the Star Wars movies?”  
She shook her head bashfully, “I’m afraid not. Not entirely. I’ve caught brief glimpses when I was delivering extra popcorn to the woman I served before you.”  
“Which ones?”  
“I…beleive the prequels.”  
Mallory stood up, with a serious look, “Well, that settles what we’ll be doing for the day.”  
* * *  
Rhoda was fond over Mallory almost instantly when she entered the Sanctuary. Lydia was correct in that regard, she emanated an aura around her that instantly drew Rhoda to her; something so gentle yet powerful. It gave her a sense of peace, invigorating her, renewing energy. Yet, she could see that Mallory might’ve been giving off such effects without consequence to herself. She was sluggish, her skin had taken on a gray tone with the lack of light, she’d lost weight, not much, but enough to warrant Rhoda’s concern. She hadn’t looked like this when she arrived. Yet, it was as if the effects of the Apocalypse were only now pressing down on her; almost like a preservative energy had left. Rhoda tried her best to be a friend, even though she didn’t know how. She’d never been close to anyone, never beyond servant and master. No one had actually cared to learn her name like Mallory, just out of desire for human interaction; an effort to maintain sanity. That’s why Mallory saved Bartholomew, why she befriended Rhoda, she refused to lose herself, even after losing everything.  
This made Rhoda’s betrayal all the more heinous in her own eyes.  
Langdon had approached her barely a week after the incident at the Temple. She’d gone to fetch some food, in hopes that Mallory would at least try to eat something. She felt him approaching long before she saw him. Darkness and power followed him like a perfume, sharpening her senses. She bowed deeply without a word when he stood over her, frowning; not displeased, but grave in his intent.  
“Look at me, Rhoda.”  
She trembled at the way her name left his lips like a dark command. She shakily raised up to rest her gaze on his chest.  
She gasped with fear when his fingers took her chin and forced her head up.  
“In the eyes.”  
“Yes, Lord Langdon,” she answered, her invitation for his will.  
He smiled, but it was without joy. It was cold, inhuman. He dropped his hand.  
“Were you present at the Temple the night of my return?”  
He knew, of course he knew. He was daring her to lie.  
“Yes, Lord Langdon.”  
He nodded, “Then I’m certain you’re aware of the disturbance caused during the sacrifice.”  
She don’t know why that prompted her start vomiting out words the way she did; perhaps paralyzing fear that he would do something to Mallory. Surely he knew it was her that was responsible.  
She stepped closer, pleading, “Lord Langdon, Miss Mallory is deeply apologetic for disturbing the sacrifice. She swears she will never interfere again. And perhaps it was not her at all. Perhaps The Dark Lord was trying to communicate with you.”  
His gaze was a dagger straight through her chest, his tone even more dangerous, “You dare to presume what my Father does and says to me?”  
She violently shook her head, protesting, “No! My Lord, that wasn’t—“  
He started stepping closer, backing her against a corner, eyes never straying from hers, “Does the slave think she knows more than the master?”  
Tears pricked at her eyes, “Never, Lord Langdon.”  
She was flat against a wall, shaking with terror.  
“Has Miss Mallory’s influence planted a root of disobedience in you? Will corrections need to be made to curb your sudden defiance?”  
Her muscles tensed as if she expected a slap, “No! No, my Lord.”  
He brought his lips closer to her ear, his breath hot on her face, “If Miss Mallory’s head is stuck to a pike and displayed in the temple, will you be rid of your rebellion?”  
A single tear escaped down her cheek, “No! No! I will obey, Lord Langdon! I will obey!”  
He slowly stood up and backed away, looking her over cooly, “You will observe Miss Mallory and see if you can find any evidence of…unusual displays of power. Upon any discovery of such, you are to immediately report to me.”  
She nodded, wiping away the tear, feeling like there was a sinkhole in her stomach, “Yes, Lord Langdon. It will be done according to your word.”  
He turned to leave, saying with cold confidence, “Of course it will.”


	8. The Flower Blooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation leads to new discoveries

Mallory became more comfortable with leaving her apartment as time went on, though she didn’t interact with anyone besides Rhoda. Not for lack of trying. She’d see other people, either at the various entertainment facilities they’d built or just in passing. At best, she was treated like a plague; avoided and snubbed, which she didn’t mind at all, she was used to it. Coco’s various functions and friendships had made her build up a callous to elitist bullshit.   
The one difference between then and now was Rhoda. She couldn’t remember having any friends when she’d moved to L.A., let alone a best friend; but Rhoda quickly earned the title, perhaps out of necessity, but not begrudgingly. Once they’d gotten over the hurdle of master/servant, they found they had a lot in common; a grounded sense of self, a natural helpfulness, and now even a deep love and respect for Princess Leia. Mallory couldn’t help but wish that they’d known each other under much different circumstances. Ones where there was no apocalypse or Antichrist, and she wasn’t a designer human grown in a lab, and they could have normal lives; where she’d have Rhoda to hang out with on her birthday, and not feel completely alone every waking second of the day like she’d been since moving…though she forgot why she moved.  
But the nicest times with Rhoda, or at any point, were at the Sanctuary’s library. It was a less populated area, and so peacefully quiet; even in the apocalypse people obeyed library rules.   
It was a grandiose as the rest of the complex; floor to ceiling rows of books spanned rich mahogany shelves underneath a glass roof trimmed in gold, the floor the same reflective black marble. They’d get lost just searching for books, any kind; Rhoda was most fascinated by history, inundating Mallory with questions about what used to be America or other countries. To which she would shrug most of the time, she’d never been an A student in history. Oddly enough, Mallory found herself drawn to collections of fairytales or myths; enthralled by tales of witches and fairies, gods and monsters. She’d never considered herself a fanciful person, but felt an irresistible pull to the mystical.  
Their peace, however, was interrupted one day when a servant entered the library and made a beeline for the two of them with an envelope in his hand. He stopped, gave a quick bow and held out the envelope.  
“An invitation from Lord Langdon.”  
They looked at each other, confused and scared. Mallory took the envelope carefully. It was blood red, a golden seal with the indent of a goat enclosing its contents. She popped it open, unfurling a short letter in a thick, cursive hand.  
Mallory, may I have the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight? I await your answer with bated breath.-Michael Langdon  
She gave the messenger a deadpan stare, “You can’t be serious.”  
“He needs an answer,” they responded just as blankly.  
She furrowed her brows, then nodded gravely, “Yes.”  
They bowed and left in a hurried pace. Leaving the two women frozen in place.  
“God, that man is pretentious,” Mallory muttered, rolling her eyes.  
“He wants to appear calm and in charge,” Rhoda replied, more so to herself.  
Mallory turned to her, “How’d he know where I’d be?”  
She lifted up her arm with the black band, “Our wristbands are tracked.”  
“Comforting.”  
* * *  
Lydia had become another fixture of Mallory’s new life, a slightly more annoying one, but still welcome. And of course, she just had to make Mallory a dress for the evening, even though she insisted she could wear any number of the others; but she was determined. Lydia was practically buzzing with chaotic energy as she designed, made the pattern, and started sowing this new dress in a single hour.   
“Is that satanic influence or pure talent?” Mallory joked.  
“Both,” she replied, not looking at her.  
The final product, finished just in time, left Mallory speechless. It was a soft, flowing white dress. The bodice was encrusted with gold trim and adornment, leading down to a skirt with feathery fringe; the sleeves open and sheer, draped and falling off the shoulders. Rhoda helped place the finishing accessory of a golden crown of flowers.  
“What do you think?” Lydia asked, glowing with pride.  
“It’s gorgeous,” she said turning to her, “It’s very angelic.”  
She chuckled with a wink, “I thought it’d be a nice little contrast.”  
Mallory smiled and looked in the mirror again.  
Words were scratched on the mirror; slowly each letter appeared, line by line. Time seemed to stall. Her gaze was set; unmoving, as the impossible happened right before her eyes once again. Eventually, the message was complete, and it was incomprehensible to her.  
Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum!  
“Mallory?”  
Rhoda placed her hand on her shoulder, “Are you ok?”  
She gave no reaction, not wanting to alert Lydia.   
“I’m fine.”  
The same messenger from before arrived at her apartment with the same breakneck speed she’d delivered the invitation. The moment Rhoda opened the door, the escort looked at Mallory and informed her, “Lord Langdon requests Miss Mallory come alone.”  
Mallory could see Rhoda’s grip tightened on the doorknob and the sudden fear in her eyes.  
“It’s fine, Rhoda,” she assured, “I’ll be fine.”  
As she left, Lydia called out after her, “Good luck, dear!”  
She felt like a teenager going on her first date, her doting parents watching out for her. The entire situation both filled her with dread and a weird humor; of all things she never expected to happen, the first was a nuclear apocalypse, and the second was dinner with the Antichrist. She wondered if her reckoning had finally come for the Temple incident; she had flashes of blood and gore pass through her imagination, all the different ways Langdon could kill her.  
At least she knew she had a defense mechanism; she had no idea how to use it, but it was something. She’d tried to manifest it on her own free will, but no matter how hard she focused, she would hit a brick wall. Maybe, she thought, it was only an emotional response. Maybe the threat of dying will be all it takes for me to go off. That is if I get the-  
Her thought stopped as they exited the main complex, a motorized cart waiting outside. It wasn’t anything fancy or futuristic like she’d come to expect, just a simple gray cart.  
“What, does he live in an entirely different building?”  
They got into the cart without a word. She took that as a yes. She slipped into the cart and they began to drive. The artificial lights had been dimmed to a more evening-time atmosphere, the outside of the glass looking as green and dark as before. They came upon a house 20 miles eastward of the complex, as gothic as Mallory expected. It was Victorian architecture, the wood painted a deep red with accents of black. A black iron staircase led up to stain glass doors under a spherical archway, which to her looked like a mouth, the black crown molding its ready teeth. The escort parked and led her up the stone pathway, the familiar darkness creeping up around her.   
The escort rang the doorbell, receiving an immediate answer.   
Michael opened the door, fully clad in gothic regalia; though not as extravagant as expected. The escort bowed deeply without a word, immediately leaving at the wave of Michael’s hand. Within a blink, the two were left alone, Mallory still standing on the stairs.  
“Oh, Mallory,” he mused, looking her over, “you didn’t have to dress up for me.”  
She restrained herself from rolling her eyes, didn’t want to get killed too early.  
He raised an eyebrow with a smug grin, “Still so shy?”  
“What would you like me to say?” She crossed her arms, “Thanks for inviting me to dinner? Nice place you got here?”  
“Gratitude is always a good way to start.”  
She stared at him blankly.  
“Or not.”  
He stepped back, extending his arm to invite her inside. She cautiously slipped passed him, feeling her skin tingle from his gaze never leaving her. She looked around, the inside not as loft and flamboyant as the exterior. It was stately, like a house that came from old money.   
“I wanted a house similar to my childhood home…” he told her, “one of them, anyway.”   
He turned to the left and started walking, she followed silently. They entered a dining room, not dissimilar to…  
She couldn’t finish the thought, like the memory was hiding from her.  
Food was already laid out on the table, nothing fancy at all; steak, potatoes, a few vegetables on two plates at each end, wine glasses beside them; a simple candelabra in the center.   
“Ms. Mead has opted not to join us this evening,” he said in passing as he pulled out her chair.  
She obliged and sat down, the strangeness of the whole situation growing in the pit of her stomach; she thought of the Twilight Zone, or like being in a simulation where the ones controlling it only barely know how everyday life operates.   
“Why am I here?”  
He had already begun to eat, “I feel as if we got off on the wrong foot.”  
She didn’t move, “That’s a weird way to say you poisoned me.”  
“I told you, it was a test,” he lifted the glass to his lips, “And you seem to me to be alive and well.”  
“And are you trying to fix that?”  
He set down the glass, looking at her with a mixture of offense and concern, “Mallory, I’m a man of my word. You passed the test, you made it to the Sanctuary, why would I take that away from you?”  
She shrugged, “Seems like something you’d do.”  
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well you assume, then.”   
Something in his tone, or in his eyes, was off; not as confident, not as clear.   
“Just as I don’t know you,” he continued, “I haven’t forgotten your coyness at your first interview,” he smiled, “I was hoping this would establish a new sense of trust. Perhaps we can be friends.”  
She huffed, “You have an odd way of making friends.”  
“Must explain my lack of them.”   
There was the shift again. A twinge of…sadness? A wavering.  
He leaned closer, curling his fingers under his chin, “There are so few interesting people in the world. People you can’t figure out within the first five minutes of meeting them. I like getting to know these people. See what makes them tick.”  
She nodded, finding herself slipping into peculiar comfort, “I’m an experiment.”  
“You’re fascinating,” he mumbled to himself, “Tell me about Coco.”  
Words spilled from her, like an overflowing glass, “She was a Capricorn, hated hazelnut, the color orange, and Lana Del Ray. She wanted an iced mocha with exactly 10 large ice cubes every morning at 8:30 on the dot. One time she asked me how to spell the word “insatiable” for a tweet,” she chuckled, “I still have no idea what that tweet was. She once threw my phone into my drink because I wasn’t paying attention to her while she was talking. I was texting my mom,” her voice became sad, but her mind somewhat struggled to pull the memory from the depths, “She’d just had a mastectomy and I hadn’t seen her face to face in three years.”  
“And yet you mourn her,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on her like a trance.  
After a pause, she looked down in thought, “She was no stranger to being a bitch but she was still a person. I never thought she deserved to die. She needed me to take care of her to watch her and make sure she was ok. For all her bravado she was like a baby bird that really didn’t know how to flap its wings. And it was my job to help her,” a tear slipped down her cheek onto the plate, “And the one time I don’t…”   
He stood from the table, slowly walking towards her. She was weeping now, not of her own free will.  
“I should’ve seen that something was wrong, I should’ve known. I could’ve done something. I failed her. And then I got to come back, I got to keep living. And I can’t help but keep thinking that I don’t deserve to when she didn’t.”   
He crouched down next to her, using his thumb to brush away a tear, “Why did she matter so much to you?”  
She shook her head, I have no idea. I just felt so protective of her. She was such a short part of my life, yet I felt this connection to her, more than anyone” she blinked confusedly, “…that I can remember at least.”  
He touched her hand, entwining it in a comforting grip, “When you lose someone you love, you very quickly seek for an outlet to express your rage,” his eyes were wet, “sometimes even after your scapegoat has been sacrificed on the altar of your vengeance, there’s still some residue of anger left over for yourself.”  
They stared at each other, something passing between them; a spirit of humanity, a shared grief. For a moment, she forgot who…what he was. His words sunk into her heart and made grooves for empathy to flow through like a river through tunnels. Her hand reached over and rubbed his shoulder, she didn’t know what he’d been through, but she knew she desired to relieve the pain.   
Something changed when she touched him, his eyes were filled with a new emotion, determination, “Would it relieve some of your grief if Brock was killed?”  
She was taken aback by the question. She didn’t answer at first, her mouth having to catch up with her mind.   
“No,” she replied sadly, “No more death.”  
He shoved away from her, and stood, an obvious aura of anger boiling over the surface, quickly dissolving the tenderness of the moment, “How selfless,” he growled, “and utterly apathetic of you.”  
Her defenses shot up, “What?”  
He looked ready to rip her apart, “You say you cared about Coco and yet you feel absolutely no desire to do anything about the one who took her life.”  
Energy began to stir in her fingertips, “Not wanting revenge isn’t the same as indifference.”  
He slammed his fist on the table, making her jump, “You didn’t give a fuck about Coco,” he leaned in, snarling, “She was your project, your tool to find your own self-satisfaction in helping such a stupid, vapid little heiress keep her life together.”  
The fire began to coil in her chest and surge through her veins. She balled her hands into fists, “That’s not true.”  
He laughed viciously, “You’re glad the bitch is dead, you only wish you had a replacement to keep up your illusion that you’re in control of your own life,” his eyes were wild with rage, “Is that your dark place, Mallory? Making the weak rely on you so you can feel better about yourself? You didn’t give a damn about her!”  
She pushed away form the table, standing to face him, closing in on him, her voice as enraged, “You don’t know the first thing about me.”  
”I know too well,” he met her confrontational stance.  
Thick tension swirled around them. Sparks of power flaring between them, a sign of deeper energy, begging to explode.  
He grimaced, “Do you know why I haven’t killed you yet, Mallory?”  
“Because you’re afraid I’ll come back again,” she spat.  
She was against the wall in a second, Michael’s fingers crushing her throat, his other hand tightening around her wrists above her head, his legs pinning her firmly. His hot breath ghosting over her face and neck with each word of venom, “Because you’d take it like a martyr,” he spoke dangerously low, she could barely struggle underneath his grip, her body going cold, “you’d grit your teeth and watch as I gutted you like a goddamn animal.” His eyes traced over her lips, she felt his breathing quicken, his heartbeat race, “You’d stare at me with those big brown eyes and whisper forgiveness from your pretty little mouth. You’d take every single blow with saintly silence. And I personally don’t like getting that angry,” he squeezed her neck, strangling a terrified gasp from her mouth, “Congratulations, you’re too infuriating to kill.”  
She pushed him back with inhuman strength. He flew to the other wall, his head slamming with such force that for a moment she worried it had cracked. Panicking, she ran out of the room, nearly falling out the front door.  
Ms. Mead came running in, seeing Michael on the ground, disoriented, “ What the hell happened?!”  
* * *  
She didn’t look back or think. She just ran. All she knew was the moving ground beneath her feet. She just had to-  
She was in her room. Like a blip. Her body appeared in her room. Rhoda screamed, scared at first, before realizing it was her.   
“Mallory!”   
The world was shaking. Mallory’s eyes widened, seeing blurs of color and light. She collapsed to the floor.  
“Mallory!” Rhoda shook her, crying.  
Words came from her, spewing out with perfect clarity.  
“Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum!”  
Her vision began to fade, the world around her getting smaller and smaller like she was descending into a tunnel. Pressure bared down on her body, and she sank lower and lower. Darkness covered her, a dull ring pierced through her ears, her skin feeling numb…  
Blinding white light exploded all around her, then left as quickly as it came; replaced by gentle blue. The ground was solid beneath her; she wiggled her fingers, soft grass poking against her skin. She touched her face, feeling a temperate warmth on her cheek. It took her a moment before she realized…  
Oh, it’s the sun…  
The thought was so strange, the sensation even stranger. She sat up, using her arm to shield her eyes as her other hand swept over the grass. Looking around, she saw miles of open field stretch on into eternity, splashes of color dotting everywhere from the myriads of flowers. She stood, examining more of her surroundings, not seeing-  
“Mallory!”   
She whirled around, seeing a large glass building, similar in shape to a gazebo. The beams of sunlight bounced off its roof, casting a heavenly glow around it. She saw a figure standing in front of it, whom she assumed had called her. She couldn’t make out any features, or details, but recognized the voice as feminine…  
And familiar  
“Come inside!” she heard the figure say again, “We have a lot to talk about!”  
A burst of energy surged through her veins, and Mallory found herself running; but without exerting any effort, as if she were a breeze nearly passing through with ease. She stopped at the front of the building, even bigger up close, and looked inside. It was a greenhouse, sections of different flora organized neatly throughout. A woman, honey-toned hair cascading down her back, stood watering a hanging plant.  
“Hello?” Mallory called out carefully.  
The woman turned. It had been months since she’d seen this face, but the memory appeared like a solid figure out of a pillar of smoke; along with a faint whisper, a ghost of remembrance.  
Cordelia  
“Mallory,” she smiled, placing the watering can down and walking up to the young woman, brushing a tuft of hair behind her ear with all the nurture of a mother.  
“I’m so happy to see you.”


	9. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a a short interlude. A calm pause for Mallory and you to know that there is a plan. Destiny has a way of finding you. Prophecy is inevitable. :) :) :)

“I’m so happy to see you.”  
Mallory inspected the woman’s face, “Cordelia…” she muttered, as if to confirm it to herself, “I remember your name, but I don’t know why.”  
She moved her hands to Mallory’s shoulders, eyes gleaming, “Hopefully we can fix that.”  
She took another glance at her surroundings. Perhaps it was the lack of exposure to real sunlight or nature, but every sensation felt so….sharp. The warmth penetrated her chilled bones, and she realized how deathly cold the world had been since the bombs. The clean, calm scent of greenery and colorful flowers was overwhelming, cutting through the artificial life she’d existed in for so long.  
“Where am I?”  
Cordelia laughed, like the pleasant babbling of a brook, “I suppose this is what you would call Heaven. I sent you that message in the mirror, it’s a spell for descending into the underworld, though that’s a bit of a misnomer for this place. This is more like an above-world,” she stopped when she noticed Mallory’s dazed look, “I’m getting ahead of myself, I’m sorry,” she took her hands in hers, “It’s just seeing you here in front of me…” she sighed, “Well, come in and sit down. Would you like some tea?”  
She answered eagerly, the prospect sounding amazing, “Yes, please.”  
She followed the woman to the back of the greenhouse, a white wicker table and chairs awaiting in a shaded corner. Mallory sat as Cordelia took a porcelain tea set painted with pink flowers and began preparing the tea. Mallory sat back, taking a deep breath, the first in a while. She happened to look back over and see Cordelia staring at her as she placed her cup in front of her. She shook her head apologetically, “I’m sorry, I’m staring,” she took her own cup and settled into the other chair, “You’re just so beautiful.”  
Her tone was oddly whimsical. Mallory just nodded, “Thank you.”  
A long moment of silence passed, Cordelia took periodic sips from her cup, still…staring at Mallory with a soft smile. Despite having craved the drink when it was mentioned, Mallory kept it in her lap, hoping for some answers.  
She cleared her throat, “Um, about my memory-“  
“Yes, yes, absolutely,” she set the cup down and leaned forward, her fingers interlaced on her crossed legs, “I need to warn you, Mallory, I won’t be giving you…everything back. Meaning, you’ll remember enough to know who you are, but trying to cram everything you need to know in your mind immediately would be…catastrophic. Your mind is like a balloon filled with water, filled with entirely new experiences and memories after draining the old ones. We certainly don’t want it to pop.”  
She indicated that she understood, the other woman motioned to the cup resting in her palm, “Drink your tea.”  
Mallory pursed her lips and lifted the cup. She almost audibly gasped as the liquid splashed on her tongue; it tasted like citrus, leaving a delectable tang. It was probably the best thing she’d had since—  
The experience of regaining her memory was like unraveling a thread in reverse, the string raveling back into a solid creation, different colored threads weaving back together into a tapestry. The hazy flashes of ghosts she’d seen at the Outpost became flesh and blood. The scenic white mansion nestled in New Orleans, the friends she knew and loved, the mentors who helped her hone her magic. A bespectacled redhead with a sharp tongue and expensive taste…Myrtle. A slim, charming brunette named…Zoe. A young African American woman, tough, outspoken, joyous…Queenie.  
“My name is Mallory Church,” she repeated out loud as if to materialize the information, “I was a student at Miss Robacheaux’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Women,” she stopped as the image of Coco entered her mind; entirely different from the one she’d come to know, an insecure, but kind witch holding her hands as Cordelia told them they would carry on the coven, “Coco…”  
Cordelia nodded, “That’s why you were so loyal, you were bound together with magic.”  
Mallory was on the edge of her seat, her voice shaking, “I remember you. I remember everyone,” tears sprung to her eyes, “I failed, Cordelia, I couldn’t protect Coco. I-“  
“None of that now,” she shushed her, gently caressing her face, “You are not to blame for what happened.”  
“But why…how am I alive?”  
“Don’t you remember? You’re special, Mallory,” her voice took on a fantastical quality, “And you have a glorious purpose.”  
“Am I the…” the word felt strange to say, “next Supreme?”  
“No,” she said simply, “you are so much more than that. Your destiny is bigger than the coven, bigger than anything you could imagine.” She leaned back, “But I don’t want to overwhelm you, I can tell how disoriented you’re already becoming,” she motioned towards the cup, “Drink some more tea, it should help soothe you.”  
“What about Michael?”  
Her smile disappeared, a dangerous flash in her eyes, “We will deal with Michael Langdon when the time comes. Please drink your tea.”  
She obeyed, emptying the cup and setting back on the table. It was her turn to stare, emotion overtaking her as the happy moments at the academy flooded back in. The voided loneliness she’d known was becoming far more real than she could handle.  
“I’ve missed you. I didn’t know it, but I missed all of you.”  
“I know. Things are going to get better, Mallory,” she took her hand, “I promise. You have to return now, but know that I am always with you, you are never alone.”  
They stood and shared a tight hug, the friendly aura revitalizing Mallory. She felt stronger, more calm.  
She shot up from the ground with a gulp of air, having been thrown back into her physical body. Rhoda grabbed her shoulders, looking her over for wounds or abnormalities.  
“Mallory! Are you ok?! What happened?!”  
Mallory looked at her, a new sense of purpose filling her.  
“I remember.”


	10. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one is completely honest. No one is above desperate actions.

Michael sat staring out his office window, leaving the reports and papers abandoned on his desk; a common occurrence since, like a complete fool, he brought Mallory to the Sanctuary. He would muse, something he was loathe to do while working, on how she’d taken the first consistent period of his life where he felt in control and completely rent it asunder with those soft, delicate hands…  
He slammed his fist onto the desk like a temperamental child; he despised how she’d turned him into a desperate mess. The way she’d confessed her grief to him had taken a scalpel to his calloused heart and made him remember...made him face his still very real grief over Mead...the real one. The one who took him in, a lonely, abandoned child; the one who would joke and laugh with him, the one who’s embrace was warm and genuine.   
Mallory was grieved at Coco’ death but kept going, no desire for revenge, no need to dig up the dead. He envied her that. He wished Mead’s charred corpse tied to a stake wasn’t buried into his mind. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t let Mallory see Coco. He knew what it was like to stare such crushing reality in the face. He spared her that, which made him smile in a rueful way; she was inspiring kindness in him even then.   
He wanted to see her again. He wanted her gentle brown eyes to look at him like...he was worthy of compassion. He wanted to touch her again, to wipe away the tears, to have the warmth of her skin under his fingertips; reminding him what it was like to be a real human being. He wanted... to kiss her. God, what a simple thought that seared his brain; what an innocent inclination for the Antichrist to have, how dirty it felt to him, how taboo and forbidden.   
“Michael, that girl is dangerous,” the robot had told him.  
He shook his head, grimacing.   
“Michael, that girl is dangerous,” the robot...his Ms. Mead had told him.   
He covered his face, a tear escaping his eye, disobeying his will.  
“Michael, that girl is dangerous,” the robot...his Ms. Mead...she had told him, helping him off the dining room floor after his disastrous meal.  
“Whatever she is, she has to be destroyed before she destroys you.”   
“It’s not that easy,” he’d said. A half-lie.  
“You’re the Antichrist. What could possibly be difficult about killing one little girl?”  
He faced her, “You saw what happened at the Outpost. She didn’t just survive the poison, she came back to life; somehow she crawled back up from the pits of hell and got even stronger than before.”  
He brushed past her, making his way to the living room. She followed.  
“If I recall correctly, you have the ability to destroy souls, to erase them from existence. Can’t you do that?”  
He rubbed his temple, “She’s not a normal soul.”  
“How?”  
He refused to look at her, “I don’t know.”  
————————————   
Mead reported this to the Cooperative.   
The problem with manufacturing a human-like Android, is that her ultimate loyalties will always lie with her creators; that’s simply how she’s manufactured. Even though the two idiots who made her directly, Mutt and Jeff, were in the Sanctuary, still snorting coke and banging hot socialites, they were only a small part; their technology belonged to the Cooperative, and therefore so did Mead. And when the Cooperative noticed Michael’s sudden change in behavior, and his refusal to even listen to their plans to establish his dynasty in place, they knew the only way to get inside his head was through his mother-bot.   
“Langdon has...perhaps let his delusions of grandeur blind him to the real benefits of your plan.”  
The robot...Mead...She told them this in their boardroom, 20 silver masks staring back at her.  
“It’s not his own delusions,” one said, “It’s that girl he brought with him from Outpost 3.”  
Mumbles of agreement scattered out among them.  
The robot...Mead...She contended, “Would she at all be a good candidate for creating this...dynasty you speak of?”  
Despite Michael’s explanation that it was Satan who stopped the sacrifice that night in the Temple, surely they see past that, the robot...Mead...she thought.  
“Absolutely not!” Another cried, “She’s already proven to be dangerous, somehow she’s gotten Langdon wrapped around her finger. Who knows what she’ll make him do if this continues?”  
“We need Langdon to see his purpose again,” a silver mask from the back piped up, “All we’re asking is that you convince him that the Cooperative’s goals are in his benefit.”  
“Which they are.” The robot-Mead-the robot-Mead-she said.  
“Of course,” they answered. 

The robot Mead she…...ERROR…..The robot Mead she The robot mEaD sHe……..ERROR…….Tttttttttttttttttttttttttttthhhheee robot Mead she The robot Mead she……...ERROR…….The robot Mead sHE The robot Meeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddd she The robot Mead she The robottttttttttttttttttttttttttttt Mead she……………….ERROR ERROR ERROR……………...THe robot Mead she The RObot Mead she The ROBOt Mead she The robot Mead she ERROR ERROR ERROR……………...  
With an almost imperceptible twitch, theROBOTMEADSHEROBOTMEADSHEROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRORERRO

“I’ll do whatever I need to.”  
———————————  
Mallory told Rhoda everything after waking up. Her identity as a witch, Cordelia, the coven...Rhoda was amazed. She wanted Mallory to tell her all about spells and magic. Was it anything like the fairytales? Did they all wear pointy hats? Mallory laughed and explained whatever she could think of. Rhoda was so happy. Seeing the light in Mallory’s eyes, the passion and joy that she’d lacked for so long radiating from her like the warmth of the sun, made her so very happy for her friend.  
Rhoda was terrified.  
She had no choice but to report to Langdon. He probably saw Mallory in her unusual state before Rhoda had, he would be expecting a report. She dared not think of what he’d do to her or Mallory if she failed to tell him soon.  
She’d told Mallory she would go and retrieve them lunch, hoping that she wouldn’t insist on going as well. To her relief, she didn’t. But of course not, she trusted her friend Rhoda.  
She plodded on her way to Langdon’s office, her steps and heart heavy as lead. As she neared the closed door, she saw someone in the room standing before the desk through the window, Langdon appearing bored by whatever they were saying.  
An urge took over her. She placed a hand on the door.  
“We even believe we have a rather perfect match, Lord Langdon,” the room was soundproof, but their voices sounded in Rhoda’s mind clear as if they were right next to her.  
“Either of the Koehler twins would be suitable,” the visitor continued, a man’s voice, “Their genetics are impeccable.”  
A pause. Langdon replied, “As brilliant as you people claim to be, you have such naive, simple understanding. I am in no danger of dying, you can rest assured.”  
“Of course not, Lord Langdon. The Cooperative simply believes—“  
“The Cooperative is under my direct authority, and owes its very existence to my Father and I.”  
Another pause.  
“Yes, Lord Langdon,”  
Rhoda stepped back, staring at the door. She’d been designed with perfect hearing, but...not enough to nullify a soundproof room.  
The door opened, an Indian man, average height, balding with horn-rimmed glasses made a small noise of surprise upon seeing Rhoda. He recovered and pushed past her with an air of frustration. She stood at the threshold, the door cracked enough for Langdon’s form to be seen staring down at his nails, utterly bored.  
“Come in, Rhoda.”  
She stepped inside and closed the door, the air in the room thick.  
“News?” He didn’t look up at her.  
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her throat filled with sand.   
Painfully slow, hemet her gaze, a smile, cold and betraying murderous eyes, “Do you bring news of Miss Mallory, Rhoda?”  
She nodded. Her fingers trembled.  
“Miss Mallory was...behaving strangely after returning to her apartment yesterday..”  
“I’m sure. Did she inform you of our calamitous evening?”  
Pins and needles crawled up her spine, “No, my Lord. She didn’t.”  
He frowned at that, “Behaving strangely, how so?”  
“She was babbling nonsense, staring off into nothing. Then she...fainted, waking up moments later in a daze.”  
Her tone was even, steady. Relaying information, nothing more.  
That “nonsense” was Latin, the thought popped in her mind, like it was pulled out against her will. She quickly tore it to shreds, praying he wasn’t spying in on her thoughts.  
He stood and walked to the edge of the desk in one fluid motion, “Upon waking, did she say anything about her actions? Why she was behaving so strangely?”  
She almost flinched at his biting emphasis, but kept a neutral expression.  
“No, my Lord. She has been oddly quiet since then. I have asked her to tell me, but she becomes volatile when pushed.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
His eyes were trained on her. She’d said it too fast, to precise, he knew he had to know—  
“That must hurt you a little bit.”  
She breathed deeply through her nose, “My Lord?”  
He took three long steps to the front of the desk, leaning against it with his arms crossed, now right in front of her.   
“After having grown so close, for her to simply not tell you something so obviously distressing her must be painful.”   
He straightened, “Do you think she might not trust you as much as you’d thought, Rhoda?”  
She gulped, subtly she hoped, “Miss Mallory is a kind person, but I suppose some things she’d like to keep to herself.”  
He nodded, his face feigning understanding, “Of course,” he held up his forefinger, shaking it like an owner to a naughty pet, “But that won’t do, Rhoda.”   
She petrified when he closed more distance between them, “I tasked you with finding me answers and so far,” he traced his outstretched finger from her temple to jaw, “I’ve not received anything useful.”  
Her legs felt week. She held her breath.  
“Will I have to resort to more…” his hand suddenly closed around neck, “intense measures to gain information?”  
“No, my Lord,” she wheezed, “I will continue to question her.”  
“That’s not good enough, Rhoda.” He growled.  
He held her there for another moment before dropping his hand, walking back to his chair with disgust.  
“Get out.”  
She closed the door behind her, walking a few feet away before taking in gulps of air against the wall.  
———————————-  
A few days past without a word from Langdon. Rhoda didn’t know whether that was good or bad news. But she hoped Mallory could get strong enough to fight if she needed to. She would spend hours trying to control her powers, testing what she could do. Rhoda insisted she take a break, that she was pushing herself too hard. Mallory eventually took her advice and slipped into her bedroom, Rhoda closing the door to keep disturbances to a minimum. A knock came to the door not long after. Lydia stood there with a fake plastered smile, making Rhoda’s stomach turn.  
“I’m sorry, Miss Mallory is unavailable at the moment.”  
She frowned, “Why not?”  
“She’s taking a nap.”  
Lydia had already rushed past her, waving her hand dismissively, “Well, this won’t take long. I accidentally left something of mine here on my last visit.”  
She spent a moment looking all around the little room, Rhoda watching from the side.   
But she didn’t miss the older woman slipping something into her pocket.  
“Well,” she huffed, “I don’t know where it could’ve gone.”  
Rhoda produced a pair of fabric scissors, “Is this what you’re looking for?”  
Lydia paused before chuckling, “Ah yes, thank you.”  
She managed to get out the door, babbling about telling Mallory she stopped by, when Rhoda spat out.   
“What has Lord Langdon ordered you to do?”  
She turned, “I’m sorry?”  
Rhoda stepped out of the apartment, pulling the door closed, “Your excuse about wanting a new muse was a lie. What have you been ordered to do?”  
She dropped the facade, “Lord Langdon has eyes everywhere, and he wants to know if his kingdom is running smoothly, if any threats arise. And I think a pretty significant one has.”  
Rhoda got in her face, “If you hurt, Mallory—“  
Lydia pushed her back, “My loyalty is to Langdon. He says jump, I say how high. He says spy on some nobody from Outpost who-gives-a-shit, I say what am I looking for. It seems you’ve been holding out on him. And once Mallory is taken care of, what do you think will happen to you?”  
Rhoda’s eyes were burning with rage, earning Lydia’s mockery, “Oh, you got yourself a best friend, and all of a sudden, you have a backbone? Remember your place, servant.”  
She started strutting down the hall. Rhoda tightened her fists.  
She appeared in front of Lydia, stopping her in her tracks. In a blink, she was 10 feet away from where she had been standing. Lydia started to speak, but shut her mouth. Rhoda willed her to shut her mouth and walk to her, reaching into her pocket and dropping a tiny black square in her outheld palm; a recording device, she assumed. Lydia’s eyes were wide, confused and scared at no longer having control. Rhoda didn’t let up. She commanded Lydia to keep walking all the way to the elevator. Rhoda followed behind. She made Lydia board it, frozen in the middle of the small space. Rhoda’s hand slowly raised, the doors closing.  
She threw her arm down. The elevator descending with fatal speed, crashing on the bottom floor, cleanly snapping Lydia’s neck.  
She knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed for very long. She slipped back into the apartment, the sleeping Mallory none the wiser. The device between her fingers, she glared at it; electric currents spiked and twisted, setting the tiny black box on fire.


	11. Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are they who they seem?

Mallory walked outside her bedroom, untangling her mussed hair with her fingers. Rhoda stood in the kitchen, cleaning the counters.  
“We got company or something?”  
Rhoda paused, looking up at her with a sheepish smile, “No, I just got bored.”  
She turned to head towards the bathroom, stopping when she was hit by a strong odor, “Is something burning?”  
Rhoda didn’t look up, “I cleaned the oven, accidentally left a rag in there.”  
Mallory scrunched her nose, “You were cleaning with the oven on?”  
Rhoda nearly tripped when she rushed to the door after hearing a polite knock.  
She felt her blood freeze in her veins.  
Michael stood a full foot taller than her, arms behind his back, a traitorously courteous smile gracing his lips.  
“Lord Langdon,” she muttered.  
He looked right over her, “Hello, Mallory. May I come in?”   
The two women shared a look before allowing him to step inside. Mallory crossed her arms in front of herself, nervously biting her lip. She kept her eyes down, hating how his intense gaze never left her. Rhoda fiddled with her hands, her face a perfect picture of fear.  
It felt like an eternity watching him survey the apartment before sitting on the couch, crossing his legs, “I thought it pertinent to inform you,” he stated in a business-like tone, “that Ms. Lydia Porfirio will no longer be visiting you so often,” he paused, studying her reaction, “in fact I highly doubt she ever will again.”  
She tilted her head, “Why?”  
“Horrible elevator crash,” he stated calmly.   
Rhoda moved quickly to catch Mallory as she stumbled, nearly falling, “She’s dead?”  
He didn’t respond.  
She sat down, her breathing becoming shallow.   
“Have you been in here all day?” he asked, unphased.  
Everything moved too fast, her head spun.   
Not again...not again...not again...not again…  
She wiped away tears silently falling on her cheek, her voice shaking, “Yes.”   
He rubbed his chin, a low humming emanating from his throat, “It’s just so strange...that elevator hasn’t malfunctioned once since being built; it’s practically new.”   
She shook her head, grimacing, “What are you saying?”  
He uncrossed his leg, leaning forward, “Your emotional outbursts have proven quite the dangerous display.”  
She stood, nearly knocking Rhoda back, who had been hovering over her to comfort her, “I didn’t kill her! I haven’t even seen her today!”  
“In order for the crash to have killed her it had to fall from the 6th floor,” he waved his hand, “and your the only one she comes to see up here.”  
She stepped closer, daring him to fight her, “I had nothing to do with her death!”  
He scoffed, “The entire scene reeked of magic, who else could it have been, Mallory?” He stood slowly, “You know, her friends and family will want revenge. They’ll want to see you sacrificed on the altar for what you did to her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned living with the elite for over a year,” he said in a low tone, “it’s that their appetite for violence is bottomless.”  
Sparks fluttered from her fingertips, “I didn’t--!”  
“It was me!” Rhoda blurted out, “I killed her.”   
Everything stopped. Mallory stared at her, eyes wide. Langdon cocked his head curiously.  
“Please, Lord Langdon,” she fell at his feet, “punish me instead! She had nothing to do with this! I caused the crash!”  
He squinted, “That’s ridiculous, Rhoda.”   
“No! I did!” she jumped to her feet, panicking, “Watch!” Her hand rose from her side, the table in the middle of the room rising with it; then she slammed it back to the ground, “I did that to the elevator!”   
Michael’s eyes widened, but he kept silent.  
She turned to Mallory, who stood dumbfounded, looking between Rhoda and the table, “Mallory, she recorded us, she was going to tell him everything, I was trying to protect you!”  
Michael walked calmly to the door, turning the handle. Two armed guards stepped in, following Michael’s finger pointing at Rhoda. She didn’t fight as they grabbed her.  
“No! No! Please!” Mallory screamed, trying to force their hands off of her, “I can save her! I can bring her back!” Rhoda told her stop, to let them take her. As they were halfway out the door, Mallory’s words spilled out rapidly, “I’m a witch! I was the protege of Cordelia Goode to be the next Supreme, I have the power to bring the dead back to life, I can fix this!”  
Michael stopped, his back turned to her.   
“Please,” she begged, her throat closing from her tears, “I can bring Lydia back to life.”  
He looked over his shoulder, telling her in a calm voice, “Lydia isn’t dead.”   
He walked out, leaving the door open.  
____________________  
An hour earlier

Michael dragged Lydia from death. She came back to life screaming, clawing at everything with mad desperation. He stood over the panicking woman as the small crowd that formed watched in confusion.  
“Lord Langdon!”   
Lydia repeated over and over again, falling to her knees and gripping his legs. He commanded her to get up, which she did still shaking violently. He looked to a young man in a button down clutching a clipboard and ordered with a steady tone, “Send a report to maintenance that this elevator is broken,”  
The young man nodded and scurried away.   
“The rest of you go on about your business,” he turned, walking with a measured gait in the direction of his office, “Follow me, Ms. Porfirio.”  
They did as they were told, ignoring the recently resurrected woman as she followed trembling behind Langdon.  
He closed the door behind her as she stumbled into his office; he pulled up one of the leather chairs and helped her ease into it.   
“Do you need water?” he asked casually, “It’s not pleasant coming back from the dead.”  
She shook her head, her breathing still rapid.  
“Can you tell me what happened?”  
“T-that...girl…”  
He waited patiently as she gathered herself.  
“She...she...I couldn’t control my body,” she gulped, “She just...appeared in front of me and then she forced me to hand her the recorder...and then she just...crashed the elevator.”  
“Mallory?”   
“No...her little servant. She caught me.”  
Michael didn’t move.  
“I’m so sorry, Lord Langdon, have mercy on me please,” she began to grovel.  
He held up his hand, “Go on your way, Ms. Porfirio. You did your job.”  
She thanked him profusely and nearly ran out the door. Michael sat in his chair, pensive, running Lydia’s story through his mind; and each time a new realization hit him.   
Transmutation...Concilium...Telekinesis...  
Then, he got an idea.  
—————————————-  
The peaceful haven was disturbed as Mallory tore through the field to the greenhouse.  
“Cordelia!”  
The woman ran out to meet her, touching her to try and calm her, “What happened? Mallory, what’s wrong?”  
“I don’t know what to do!” her entire body shook violently, her face stained with tears, her breath shallow and wheezing, “I don’t know what to do! We don’t have anywhere to go! He’ll kill her, I can’t save her! I can’t save her!”    
She collapsed, screaming, her heart pounding in her ears.  
“I failed again! I can’t protect her! I can’t!”  
Cordelia The woman hugged Mallory tightly, stroking her hair with soft shushes, repeating, “It’s ok. Tell me what happened.”  
Eventually, she tired herself, her throat raw and weak. She leaned into the woman’s embrace, drained of every ounce of energy.  
“Rhoda was trying to protect me. Now Michael knows, he knows everything. If I fight him, he’ll just kill her. If I don’t...”  
The woman...Cordelia answered softly, “I’m so sorry,” She kissed her forehead, “But you were right not to do anything. as much as it hurts...I need you to let her go.”  
She tore away from her grasp, “What?”  
“I need you safe, Mallory. I need you to get stronger. You can’t face Michael now. Don’t intervene. Please, let her go.”  
Mallory stood, “I can’t. I have to help her.”  
She awoke, determined to save her friend.


	12. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to lose everything...

Finding Michael was relatively easier than Mallory first thought; his energy was palpable, all she had to do was concentrate to transmute herself to where it was most concerted. She appeared in a room that resembled interrogation rooms on those cop shows. It was sleek and steel, a large one-sided mirror on the right wall. Michael stood looking into it, his back to her. On the other side, Rhoda sat in a single chair in the middle of the room, her head hung low, her arms crossed. Mead, who was beside Michael, saw her and quickly turned, straightening defensively.   
Mallory ignored her, “Let me talk to her.”  
Michael looked over his shoulder, “Now, why would I do that?”  
“Because you’re trying to figure out exactly who or what she is,” she stepped forward, Mead reacting by moving in front of Michael protectively.   
Mallory stopped her advance, “I can do that.”  
He turned to face her, placing his hand on Mead’s shoulder, “It’s not that hard to figure out what she is. I suppose I should have expected a witch to somehow infiltrate the Sanctuary like a cockroach escaping the nuclear winter,” he cocked his head, “No offense.”  
She restrained from rolling her eyes, “What do you plan to do to her?”  
He tapped Mead, signaling for her to stand down, “She’s proven herself to be unstable and violent.”  
“She was protecting me.”  
He shrugged, “It seems you too have an odd way of making friends.”  
“It poses no threat to you if I just talk to her.”  
He started to move back to his original position.  
“Michael.”  
He froze at her sincere tone, biting the inside of his cheek.  
“I literally have nowhere to go. Everyone I know and love is dead. There’s nothing outside of here besides death and nuclear waste. It’s not like we can escape anywhere,” she chuckled ruefully, “This is your kingdom, and we’re just guests enjoying your generosity.”  
His eyes were daggers, “Don’t patronize me, Mallory.”  
She strode toward him, uncaring of Mead’s jerky movements to block her.  
“If you truly believed either one of us was a threat, we'd just be bodies on the floor.”  
He stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable.   
“You can speak to her,” he quirked his eyebrow, “Under my supervision.”  
He sauntered towards the door, glancing back at her as he turned the handle, “And don’t presume to be so informal.”  
“You’ve exclusively called me by my first name,” she chased after him as he was already out the door.  
“You made no last name available.”  
That gave her pause, then she muttered, “Church.”  
He stopped, looking at her with a serious, intense gaze, “I’ll stick with Mallory.”  
She scoffed, “Fine with me, Michael.”  
She noticed his jaw clench and couldn’t help feeling a little self-satisfied.  
Two armed guards waited outside the door, they moved over for Michael to walk inside, the two women following behind.  
Rhoda’s head shot up upon seeing her friend, “Mallory!”  
She rushed on her and hugged her tightly. Michael and Mead observing from the other side of the room.  
Mallory pulled back, “Rhoda, I need you to tell me exactly what you did to Lydia.”   
Her relieved smile fell.  
“Please.”  
She sighed and sat in the chair again, explaining everything; Michael ordering her to be a spy, Lydia recording them, how she made the elevator crash, tears spilling as she finished, “I’m sorry, Mallory,” she grabbed her hands, “I swear, I didn’t tell him anything.”  
Mallory stole a glance at Michael, then crouched in front of Rhoda, “How long have you been able to do things like that?”  
She shook her head, “It’s just...always I think. I don’t know, I’ve never had to really use these powers before. I just thought….” She covered her face, “I don’t know what I thought.”  
She pursed her lips, “Rhoda, do you know anything about whose DNA you were grown from?”  
“No. Nothing.”  
She looked up at Michael once again, “I want to try something. There’s a spell. It’s like a spell that allows me to extract information from you,” she lifted Rhoda’s head, “Not just things you know, but things about your past and heritage, things you may not know about, but are true about you. I want to try it on you.”  
She curled in on herself, “Why?”  
“Rhoda, you’ve performed at least three of the tests in a series of them called The Seven Wonders, basically they determine the...Queen Witch, so to speak. I think you have Salem blood in you.”  
She was confused and silent.  
Mallory put her hand on the young woman’s knee, “This spell is intense, it’s like exposing everything about you to another person, like baring your soul. You don’t have to agree, but I’d like to at least give it a try.”  
She looked down, twiddling her thumbs, then finally meeting her eyes, “If it will help you in any way, I’ll do it.”  
Michael didn’t object to the exercise, helping Mallory prepare what she needed. With a piece of chalk, Mallory drew a large spiral starting in the center and nearly reaching the four walls. A concoction of various herbs and plants were made into a liquid which both she and Rhoda drank.   
“Cordelia really trained you extensively,” Michael commented, almost sounding impressed.  
She felt a tiny blush bloom on her cheeks, as if against her mind’s will. She instructed Rhoda to lie down in the spiral diagonally, Mallory following suit on the opposite side. Michael sat in the chair outside the spiral, Mead ever by his side.  
“Are you ready?” Mallory asked.  
“Yes,” she answered intrepidly.  
Mallory took a deep breath, “Ostende mihi faciem profundis.”  
The world exploded into bright flashes of purple and bright pink, a noise like crashing waves surrounded her. She could taste iron, like the feeling of a nosebleed. Everything spun. She thought she screamed, but couldn’t be sure.  
Then blackness   
2 years before the Apocalypse   
Cordelia, Madison, and Myrtle all stayed hidden in Misty’s cabin.  
“Was there anything else you saw that could help us?” Cordelia asked Myrtle as she nervously paced. Madison stayed silent, smoking a cigarette in the corner.  
Myrtle nodded, “Besides the two boys with haircuts that can only be described as the greatest sin since Eve bit the apple, I saw something else. It seems they are collecting DNA samples under something called Operation: Dynasty. They’re growing people, dear,” she said disgusted, “growing humans in a lab.”  
Cordelia stared ahead, biting her fingernails before stopping, raising her head.  
“What is it, dear?” Myrtle asked.  
“That might be a way for us to help Mallory and Coco.”  
Madison piped up from the corner, “How?”  
“If I could somehow transfer my energy into a new body, then that could give them a powerful ally,” Myrtle started, she quickly assured, “just until she is strong enough, then I can invoke the Sacred Taking and she will rise to full power and defeat Michael.”  
Madison walked Cordelia, shaking her head, “We don’t even know where or when or why these samples will be used to grow humans, it’s a one in a million chance that you’d even be able to find Mallory in all that chaos, not to mention we don’t even know if it’s possible.”  
“I can’t just lay down and die, Madison,” tears pricked at her eyes, “We saw what Michael did, we know what he can do, we aren’t safe,” she turned to Myrtle, “He will make sure we will not survive. If there’s even a chance that I can be alive for them, to help them, then I am willing to take it. I am still Supreme. And I will still protect this coven.  
Myrtle fell silent, knowing that Cordelia wouldn’t change her mind no matter what she said.   
“Well, then,” Madison put out the cigarette, “we’d better start planning.”  
Everyday waiting for the nuclear apocalypse was excruciating. Cordelia planned and prepared, gathering her strength for the final day.   
Just like the first day seeing Michael, a vision came to her. A vision of the exact day and time the bombs would strike. The three remaining witches decided that Michael would not have the final say in their lives. It would end on their terms. The day of the apocalypse, Cordelia performed the ritual to transfer her energy into the new body being grown for the Cooperative upon her death. Then, all three of them with tearful goodbyes, even from Madison, drank a poison that put them to sleep, to never wake up again.  
And their bodies were vaporized the blast radius when the bombs hit.  
Across the country, in a designated safe area, scientists and doctors worked tirelessly on Operation: Dynasty, where they had perfected methods to grow human beings and accelerate the maturation process. They were able to produce a healthy, young adult from a sample in just two years. On the table now laid one such testament to their success. A woman, pale and beautiful, lay comatose. Not yet awoken to the world, she and the others would be awakened upon entry to the Sanctuary, which had entered its final stages of completion a year before.   
While the common world was exploding in chaos, they were unaffected, going about their routines. Until, the young woman on the table gasped to life, her eyes opening upon sterile white lights. Cold metal stung her bare skin. An older man in a white coat rushed over to the suddenly awake woman. He appraised her clinically.  
“Well, you’re up early.”  
The perspective changed. You were staring out through new eyes, in a new body. Your name was Rhoda. That’s what they told you. You were trained from day one to serve and be quiet. You complied, despite a spark of rebellion that burned in you. You knew it was all for a greater purpose, though what that was, you had no idea.  
Then came the time for Michael Langdon to visit the Outposts.  
You remember the day that Michael left on his campaign to dispose of the Outposts. Rumors circulated everywhere that the Outposts were nothing more than extra cages for DNA-producers that became too much trouble than they were worth. It was the plan all along that the Outposts would be eliminated once they outgrew their use. As far as the Cooperative was concerned, the Sanctuary was the only world that existed. They would expand, but only with their current residents and their descendants. A part of you knew this was none of your concern, you were just a servant, made for the sole purpose of serving the elite. You were a no one.  
But there needed to be an available room.  
Call it intuition, divine intervention, whatever, but someone new was coming, and there needed to be a place for them in the Sanctuary.  
So the woman you worked for died.  
She was some social media influencer who’d had just barely enough clout to make it into the Sanctuary. It wasn’t originally your intention. You didn’t even know it was happening at first.   
She was yelling at you, telling you how stupid you were. Something about not cooking a dish right. She’d pushed you out of the way to the oven, where a skillet was sitting on the front eye. The pop and sizzle of the grease in the pan was pounding in your head along with her angry ranting. Along with them a voice like a low hum whispered like static burn her burn her burn her burn her--  
The flames sprung from the pan and nearly consumed her. She was screaming and rolling on the ground, but you kept the flame burning. You knew it would be suspect if she was the only thing burned.  
So you set the room on fire and ran out calling for help. By the time other people came to help, she was dead.   
You told those who asked that it was an accidental kitchen fire, and they believed you because there was no reason not to.  
Her body was taken away and the room was refurbished. And you waited.   
When Mallory arrived, you knew things were falling into place.   
_____________________________  
Mallory awoke with a gasp, sitting straight up. She jumped up from her place, visibly shaken, blood dripping from her nose. Rhoda...Cordelia shot up, immediately after her, hyperventilating.   
“Mallory!” Michael was at her side in a second, almost reaching out to touch her to calm her, but stopped himself.  
Rhoda rose shakily to her feet, glaring at her hands and body, as if suddenly realizing it was new.  
Mallory managed to rasp out one word, “Cordelia…”  
The Supreme looked at her, face etched with regret, “Mallory, I-“  
A gunshot exploded in the room. Blood poured from a perfect hole in Cordelia’s forehead. Michael jumped and pulled Mallory with him away from the origin of the blast, wrenching himself in front of her. Mead stood with a sleek, long barreled gun where her right arm had previously been; her face was cold and unflinching. The door swung open as the guards tried to rush in, but they were brutally taken out in an instant. Mallory ran to Rhoda Cordelia and looked her over, her fingers trembling in shock over her body, her dark eyes open wide in frozen realization. She motioned over the wound with her forefinger, making an incision without touching her skin. She swallowed hard as she dug her fingers into the incision to pull out the bullet.  
Time crawled.  
Michael looked over and saw Mead preparing to shoot again, aiming directly at mallory’s head. He screamed for her to stop. She paused. Met his gaze.   
Then raised the gun to him.   
Mallory threw her back against the wall but not before another shot rang out. Michael stumbled back yelping in pain. Mead moved with lightning speed as soon as Mallory turned to see Michael. Her cold robotic fingers wrapped around Mallory’s throat, lifting her off the ground. She tried to think clearly to use her magic, but Mead threw her against the wall to disorient her. Then her hands were around her neck again, bruising force cutting off Mallory’s air. The world started going dark as she stared into Mead’s lifeless eyes.  
Mallory was thrown back with such force she hit the back wall, luckily her right arm catching a majority of the impact. She lifted her hand to massage her aching neck as she surveyed the scene. Mead was in pieces all over the room, her limbs strewn about, sparks of electricity and frayed wires spilling out like intestines on the ground. Mallory’s eyes shot to Michael, on his knees, with his left arm extended, his right shoulder spilling blood. His eyes were wide, he fell forward, groaning as he grabbed his wound. She rushed to him, helping to prop him up against the wall. His breathing was rapid.  
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” she reassured, looking up at him. Tears were pouring down his face, splatters of his blood dotting his head; his whole body was trembling, face twisted in agony. He wasn’t breathing so hard from the pain. He was sobbing.  
She reached to start removing his jacket when he hissed behind gritted teeth, “Help her.”   
His hand fluttered towards...Cordelia. She hesitated but did as he said. She was able to remove the bullet carefully and close of the wound without a trace that it had been there. She laid her hands on her breathing in and out, concentrating all her energy.   
Nothing happened. The warm power she’d felt flowing out of her before was gone. She tried again...and again...and again...and again…  
She slammed her fists onto her body, “Wake up!”  
Nothing.  
“Cordelia, please,” she lifted her head, tears nearly blinding her, “Please wake up.”  
Mallory stared into her dead eyes for a moment, hoping for a spark or a sign; but nothing happened. She set the woman’s head back onto the ground, closing her eyes. She turned back to Michael, who had collapsed on the ground and curled into a ball with loud sobs, nearly screaming in grief. Mallory plopped down next to him, exhausted. She wrapped her arms around him tightly and sobbed with him. She felt his arms return her embrace.  
When more guards rushed the room, they stood in stunned horror at the sight of Mead’s mangled pieces, Cordelia’s body, and the Antichrist wailing like a scared child in the arms of a crying woman.


	13. Fruition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael agrees to help Mallory remember.

The next few months after Cordelia’s death both crawled and flew by; and despite Mallory’s efforts, she was unable to resurrect her former mentor and only friend of her time at the Sanctuary. Michael, who had sunken into a demeanor of eerie quiet, ordered the body be buried on a plot of ground of Mallory’s choice, and even commissioned a headstone for her; an act of human kindness which she hadn’t expected, but accepted.   
The Cooperative offered to rebuild Mead, certainly with less bugs than the previous, but he refused, deciding that his beloved Ms. Mead needed to be put to rest.  
However, the strangest turn of events was when Mallory asked to move in with Michael.  
She didn’t know what in God’s name made her suggest it. In her head, it was possibly a form of protection. She wasn’t unaware of the distrust the Sanctuary had of her, and as far as they were concerned, they’d had no troubles until Mallory showed up, a stranger from nowhere. And perhaps Michael would be willing to offer his protection after proving he had no interest in killing her.  
In her heart, however, it was the loneliness. That crushing void of emptiness around her that told her to find something...someone real to grab onto. Michael was her only familiar face, her only tie to a life outside of nuclear apocalypse. And despite who or what he was, there was another face to him, one that he showed no one. She saw it with Mead, and even...with her.   
But she never truly expected him to agree, although she assumed he did out of her same desperation for companionship. It was surreal, having the Antichrist as a roommate. Only because how perfectly normal he was. He woke up, went to the main complex, came home, ate and slept; repeating it all the next day like a workaholic CEO. They would speak in passing. Mallory spent her days exploring the outside of the complex or visiting Cordelia’s grave. And all the while the weight of a world changing destiny hung on her tired shoulders; she knew that she’d have to confront whoever it was that pretended to be Cordelia, she or it had the answers. But...Mallory couldn’t be bothered. She just wanted to rest, to feel sure about something again. To have a flesh and blood reality to ground her.  
A shred of normalcy peeked its head out one night as she stood at the stove, cooking, tired of eating from the convenience places in the main complex. She turned as Michael’s footsteps approached the kitchen. He stood there in mild shock at seeing her there over a boiling pot with a wooden spoon and apron in a hilariously domestic mode. She stuttered, not expecting him back this early, “I...I don’t know if you’d like this or not, but…”  
He crossed his arms, “It smells wonderful.”  
She nodded, her mouth in an awkward straight line as she went back to stirring.  
“Would you…” he quickly added, “like some help?”  
It was her turn to look shocked, “Sure.”  
He made his way to her, rolling up the sleeves of his black silk shirt. She gave him the apron as she retrieved two plates from the cabinet to set them on the dining room table.   
She passed him once more with the silverware, pausing. She faced him, exhaling in a huff, “Thank you for saving my life.”  
He stopped and met her eyes, the tiniest ghost of a smile haunting his lips, “Thank you for saving mine.”  
They ate dinner together, painfully aware of the different circumstances from the last time they sat there.   
“I wish we had met before,” Mallory commented quietly.  
He quit poking at his food with his fork and looked at her, “The apocalypse?”  
“Anything,” she shrugged.  
“Why?”  
She allowed a smile to come through, “I guess because you don’t look so scary with an apron on.”  
He breathed out a chuckle, shaking his head.  
“What were you like as a kid?” She wondered aloud.  
The smile vanished, a dark cloud looming over his face, “I was a monster.”   
Her heart tugged.  
“And what about you?”  
She sighed, “I don’t remember. I only remember my time at Robicheaux’s, nothing before that.”  
She hadn’t told him about the mysterious imposter that contacted her; she didn’t want to to until she knew what they were.  
He bit the inside of his cheek, “What do you remember from Robicheaux’s?”  
She cocked her head, “I remember my friends, Cordelia….but nothing really before she placed the memory spell on me.”  
She saw a subtle twitch in his face, like relief. She didn’t push.  
He stood suddenly, “There’s something I need to show you.”  
He took her to a room next to his bedroom, a bloodstained room with horrifying paintings covering the walls, a pentagram carved deeply into the center of the floor.  
That penetrative evil, the inky darkness she’d envisioned that first day was thick in the air of this room; but Michael moved through it with ease. She pushed through the sick feeling and followed as he stopped in front of a particular mural. She stepped closer to see him pointing at a woman with a crown of stars holding an infant.  
“Is this at all familiar to you? Or does it jog a memory?”  
She gaped at the picture, it was the scream of an alarm, but from miles away.  
“No...kind of. It’s like I know there’s something, but I don’t know what.”  
She faced him, “I want to remember. I want to remember everything. I’m not a whole person as long as these dark spots in my mind prevent me from remembering.”  
He was silent, looking away from her.  
“What’s wrong?”  
He took in a deep, shaky breath, “I don’t want you to remember. I don’t want the past to kill the flower that has bloomed.”   
She was taken aback.  
“I want to keep the Mallory who looks at me with kind eyes.”  
She looked at him strangely, “But the Mallory I am now isn’t the real Mallory, not fully.”  
An unexpected tear escaped his eye, “I don’t want...I couldn’t bear being a monster to you.”  
She didn’t know what to say. They stood in silence, his words hitting her like some long hidden confession.  
She shook her head, breaking the silence, “I don’t know what you are to me. I mean...everything is so confusing. When I look at you, I see a man, but looking at everything you’ve done...I can’t help but see…”  
“A monster.”  
She grabbed his hands, meeting his eyes with determined intensity, “Michael, there is this...ache in me to be close to you, to bring you from that darkness into the light. And I know you want to,” she brushed against his cheek with a feather light touch, “I can sense good in you.”   
He looked so different from the arrogant king he’d been before. His eyes were confused, visibly upset. He seemed like her words had ripped out his heart.  
“Perhaps,” she continued, quieter, “you could let me see your dark places. The ones hidden from everyone. Maybe we could face the past together.”  
His knuckles were white as he balled his hands into fists, then he slowly released them from the tight grip. He dared to lift his hand and place it over hers.  
“All right.”  
They prepared the same ritual as they had in the interrogation room. A spiral was drawn in the middle of the room, and they shared the drinking potion. Michael was practically shaking, fear written all over his face. She calmed him and told him to lay down in the spiral; she followed.  
“Are you ready?”  
He didn’t answer.  
“Michael?”  
“Yes.”  
They both took in a deep breath and chanted together.  
“Ostende mihi faciem profundis.”


	14. Journey to the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory is searching for answers. Michael is searching for his path. They both find each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem used in this chapter is Louis Aragon’s "Il n'y pas d'amour heureux"   
> “There is no happy love”

A lone woman, a refugee from her broken home, found herself weeping in a dingy motel room in the city. She was pregnant, the catalyst for her ostracization from her abusive parents. She didn’t know where to go or what to do. She’d stolen cash from her father’s wallet and run away. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant had hit the road the moment she told him, and she couldn’t afford an abortion. She’d decided to make her deathbed the ugly, stained spring mattress of the motel room. Her face was wet, her fingers trembling as she poured out a bottle of pills in her hand.  
A burst of white light shot through the room. The woman screamed, dropping everything and backed up against the wall, staring as this light took on a humanoid shape.  
“Do not be afraid, Agatha.”  
The voice was gentle, it sounded as if it came from everywhere and nowhere at all.  
“Who are you?”  
The light hovered closer.  
“Do not be afraid to bring forth this child.”  
Agatha felt a warmth caress her belly like a hand.  
“I have set aside this child for a great purpose. You shall give birth to a daughter, and upon her 18th birthday she shall become pregnant, through no will of man, but by mine. And her child shall be my chosen one, who will save this world from destruction.”  
She gawked at the message, doubts and fears assailing her.  
“How can I possibly take care of this child? I have nowhere to go!”  
Tendrils of light spread about, “Take no care as to how you will be provided for; behold, lilies of the valley neither toil nor sow, and kings are not clothed like one of them.”  
Agatha crawled closer, enraptured. She reached out her hand to touch the light, electricity buzzing on her fingers.  
“All right,” she answered breathlessly, “I’ll do what you say.”  
The light faded, leaving Agatha in blissful assurance that all would be well.  
When she took a shower that night, she noticed a new mark on her body, like raised scar tissue.  
A single star over her heart.  
1692  
Sarah Good was among the first to fall in the Salem Witch Trials. She was a homeless, pregnant beggar despised by the community; she was tried and imprisoned, leaving behind her husband and 4 year old daughter Dorothy, who was also taken into custody upon suspicion of witchcraft. After the 4 year old was released, the trauma she suffered left her unable to function and she spent the rest of her life as an invalid. Her mother meanwhile, gave birth in prison to her sister Mercy; but the newborn died mere hours after her birth, then Sarah was led to the gallows and hung declaring to her judge and executioner, Judge Matthers, “God will give you blood to drink.”  
Heartbroken and desperate, Sarah’s husband begged the newly risen Supreme of the escaping witches to raise his daughter back to life and give her a chance to live freely. She agreed, bringing the newborn back to life. Mercy Good was given into the care of Hephzibah Green and her young daughter Jescha, and was renamed Mara, meaning bitterness. The witches escaped, leaving the horrors of Salem behind. Years passed and justice for Sarah Good was left undone…  
25 years later  
The town of Salem, Massachusetts lay sleeping under the pale moon, its people having put away their business for the day and said their nightly prayers for protection over their souls during the night.   
All except for Judge Matthers, who sat at his desk by the candlelight working into the late hours. He stifled a yawn, dipping his quill in the ink pot.  
A noise disturbed him. Something against the window. He inspected the origin of the disturbance, seeing and hearing nothing else. He had just made it back to his desk when the front door swung open with a loud bang. The old man jumped and stilled his heart, shuffling over to close the door.  
“Working late into the night, Your Honor?”  
He turned, startled at the new voice. A young woman in her mid twenties stood in his home, dark eyes flashing with rage.   
She lifted her hand, “Detendo.”  
His body was thrown against the wall, his limbs gluing to the wooden surface, paralyzed. He couldn’t make a sound.  
The woman strolled toward him, “Dost thou remember a woman by the name of Sarah Good?”  
His mind raced back to a gallows, a fiery, deranged woman he’d condemned as a witch.  
She continued, “The woman you hung 25 years past in your self-righteousness?”   
She stepped closer, “I am her daughter.”  
His eyes widened in terror.  
She gave him a malicious chuckle, “Aye, the one pronounced dead when you showed my mother no compassion. I hath returned from the grave to exact her prophecy upon thee. Innocent blood you spilt, but in thine own sin-cursed blood shall ye drown.”  
She reached into her cloak, whispering, “Patentibus.”   
His mouth opened without his consent. He started shaking.  
She held up a closed fist to his face, “Behold the vengeance of Almighty God, Most Honorable Judge, and the vengeance of Mercy Good.”  
She opened her hand, blowing a white powder into his mouth. He coughed violently, his body trembling harder as she waved her hand to drop him to the floor. Blood poured from every orifice, his skin turning a disgusting gray as his blood splattered all around him before he collapsed dead. She spat on his corpse and left the Judge’s home, slipping away without a trace.  
_____________________  
Jescha confronted her upon her return. Mara hung their clothes on the line, her adopted sister asking, “Where wast thou really?”  
She didn’t look up from her work, “Repaying a life for a life.”  
“Hast thou no regard for your own safety?” She scolded.  
“Not since my birth hath the town known me, and even then presumed dead.”  
She crossed her arms, “Thou canst not put the coven in such danger.”  
She looked up at her, shrugging, “I have not. No man recognized me and I did not use my given name. All is well, justice has been done.”  
She huffed, stepping beside her to help her finish her chores, “Some justice shouldst be left unto the Lord.”  
Mara nodded, “‘Twas if I be His messenger.”  
“Beware of pride, Mara. Lest thou think thyself too important.”  
“I have thee to blame. Thou hast told me I am special.”  
She smiled, “And ye are. Thou art also as stubborn as the ass of Balaam.”  
She bumped her, “Aye, but the stubbornness of the ass twas the Lord’s will.”  
Mara had no desire to become Supreme; she was happy to spend her days tending her garden and living in peace, despite both Jescha and Hephzibah’s insistence. She did eventually attempt The Seven Wonders at their behest, only to fail the very last.   
“T’would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed,” Jescha told her after the tests as they sat by the river.  
She laughed, “Should I take that as compliment or criticism?”  
“Both.”  
“Why?” She skipped a rock, “If I am not the Supreme, then I am not the Supreme.”  
Her sister pouted, “I had such faith that ye were.”  
“And why hast thou not attempted the Seven Wonders? Go and show thyself to be the Supreme.”  
She balked, “If thou couldst not do it, then surely I cannot. I am merely a garden witch.”  
Mara feigned offense, “Careful of thy words, I am merely a garden witch.”  
She leaned her head into the crook of her neck, “No, not merely. You are among the most powerful of our coven.”  
Mara patted her, “Thou art just as essential as I. Providence will grant you great things, dear Jes. I’m sure of it.”  
“As I am sure of you, Mara.”  
The two women continued in their happy states. Jescha eventually moving away, marrying into a rich family. Meanwhile, Mara’s descendants continued the line of powerful witches. Until a girl was born with the power of special connection to the spiritual world, claiming communication with the entity most commonly called God. This woman’s name was Agatha, who did give birth to a daughter she named Leah. And according to Agatha’s predictions, Leah did become pregnant at 18 years old, though no one ever knew who the father was. And Leah gave birth to a beautiful baby girl she named Mallory.  
_____________  
Mallory sat on her grandmother’s knee, listening to her story. When she got to the end, Mallory clapped gleefully, “That’s me!”  
Agatha ran her fingers through her granddaughter’s hair smiling wistfully, “That’s right, Mallie. Grandma knew you would be born even before she had mama.”  
“Do I have magical powers?” She wondered in awe.  
Agatha cupped her face, “You have more power than anyone, Mallie. You have the blood of Salem and the heritage of divinity.”  
She bit her lip excitedly, “Do you still have the star?”  
“No, but you do, don’t you?”  
She nodded, “Mama says it’s a birthmark.”  
“It is. It’s a very special birthmark. It’s a sign that you are gonna save this world one day, Mallie.”  
Leah and Mallory’s stepfather found them sitting out in the garden, dragging a pouting Mallory from Agatha to go home. Leah would always try and undo her mother’s damage, telling Mallory that her grandma was senile and delusional. But to Mallory, she was the only one who understood her, the only one who confirmed the deep sense of destiny she’d felt even as a little girl. She especially became a safe haven when Mallory turned 13 and was found levitating in her bed by her stepfather. Her parents dragged her to several priests as more powers manifested; the ability to manipulate fire, psychic visions, disappearing and reappearing, etc. They believed she was worshiping the devil or possessed by a demon. Mallory was forced to endure several painful exorcisms, her powers manifesting in the middle of them due to her emotional distress. This only fueled their fear. The worst incident was when Mallory found a dead rat in their yard, torn to shreds by a local stray cat. She brought the rat to the front porch, cradling it in her hands. Her parents screamed for her to put it down, but she only placed one hand over it, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.   
The rat stirred to life, its wounds completely healed, even appearing younger. It scampered off in its new life while she stared in amazement at her own power.   
It was the last and worst exorcism she had before running away to live with her grandmother. When her grandmother died, she felt like she’d lost her only home.  
Then, a woman named Cordelia Goode announced nationwide that she ran a school for women with exceptional powers, witches.  
Mallory packed her bags and left for New Orleans.  
_______________  
There is no love which is not pain  
There is no love which does not bruise  
There is no love which does not fade  
There is no love which does not live from tears...

Michael felt as if he was thrown back into his body; like he was snatched away on the cusp of discovering the final truth. He gulped in air desperately, looking around him. Mallory lay there still in a peaceful trance. She should have woken up with him.  
He went to her, touching her face, “Mallory…”  
She remained unresponsive.  
“Mallory!”  
She was still breathing, but was lost in his past, being buried beneath his darkness.  
He picked her up and carried her to his bedroom, lovingly laying on his black silk sheets, propping her head on a few pillows.   
Hours passed...days...weeks…  
“Mallory, please,” he begged everyday, “Please come back to me.”  
He refused to leave the house. His food, his work, everything was ordered to be delivered to that single room. Several Cooperative members pleaded with him snap out of it; they promised to place a guard at the house, to set up a cycle of servants so he could be notified if or when she woke up. They were met with fury.  
All the while she was plunged into the deep dark waters of Michael’s past. She witnessed everything, felt everything he experienced. It was enough to surely kill her.  
She finally came to after nearly two months of unconsciousness. Michael was at her side immediately, caressing her sweat-soaked face.  
“It’s ok,” he whispered over and over again, “It’s ok, I’m here.”  
Her breathing calmed, her mind cleared; she looked at him, seeing beyond him. It was as if she’d journeyed through his soul, seeing every crevice, every hidden thought, surveying every molecule of his essence. It was terrifying. She saw slit throats and corpses, demonic claws sinking into his heart, endless dark. It was sorrowful; brimming with abandonment and loss, desire to change, but no one to help, a small, scared child thrust into the arms of people who only saw him as a means to an end, a tool. Bottomless loneliness and a starving for love, true, faithful love. But more than anything...  
It was beautiful. He was beautiful.  
Despite it all. She should hate him, she should want him dead. But only love flooded her heart.  
There was a bond between them now that their souls were bare before each other, a golden thread that weaved among their atoms, threading them together; they were darkness and light, a dichotomy, two coexisting infinities that could never be separated.   
She took his face in her hands, admiring every detail of his face; she touched their foreheads together, breathing him in.  
“You will never be alone again.”  
Tears sprung to his eyes, his fingers brushing over her neck. The thread tightened, pulling them closer and closer together until their lips connected.   
Michael groaned the moment their lips touched, ferociously pouring out every ounce of built up sorrow and desire. Emotion overflowed in both of them; tears began to fall upon their lips, and they shared them, letting go of every pretension. Michael snapped his fingers, their clothes disappearing. They became a mess of entangled limbs and passing breaths. He kissed all the way down her body, wrapping his arms around her thighs. She sighed, her skin burning with each touch of his lips. She entwined her fingers in his silken hair, threading through it assuringly. He gave a gentle bite on her stomach, earning a surprised moan. He looked up, concerned, searching to see if she was displeased. Her pulse quickened, slick heat burned between her thighs as she looked into his pleading gaze.   
“I’m fine,” she whispered, “That felt so good,” she pressed her lips to his forehead, “You make me feel so good, Michael.”  
A desperate noise left his lips as he pulled her closer, leaving more love bites on her stomach and inner thighs, relishing every utterance of praise from her. He snaked his hands under her and started to lay on his back, Golden hair spilling on the black silk. He looked up at her under heady eyes.  
“Take your throne,” he begged breathlessly.   
She bit her lip, pulling herself over him; he made quick work with his tongue, tasting her with desperate ferocity. Her legs trembled; her grip on the headboard tightening as the pleasure exploded through her body, primal moans and worship flowed from her like a hymn. Michael’s fingers gripped and dug into her flesh; the taste of her dripping on his tongue sent a jolt of need through him. Unable to bear it, he reached down and attempted to relieve some of his growing desire for release.   
With a heavy breath, Mallory slid herself down his body, straddling his stomach. He was taking in air like a dying man, his tongue running over his lips with little moans of pleasure. He looked up at her, eyes begging and submissive. He traced his hands over her, cupping her breasts, massaging them, treating them like sacred objects, reverently venerating her skin. He slid his fingers up to her throat, slowly curling around it gently, whispering in an uncertain tone, “Mine?”  
She kept her eyes on him as she took his thumb and wrapped her lips around it, biting and sucking. His other hand traced down her body to feel her wetness coating his stomach.  
She leaned into his touch, sighing and raking her nails across his chest. Her own need curling into thick tendrils in her core.  
She leaned down, giving him a passionate kiss, “Yours.”  
He groaned, bucking his hips, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.  
“Please, Mallory,” he could barely speak, the need building within him stealing all of his words. He sat up to grip her face and pull her into a desperate, devouring kiss.   
“Take me,” he whined, “Please, take all of me.”  
She kissed him again, but he pulled back with a needy grunt, “I need you. I need to feel you surrounding me, please. Oh, please, Mallory...” the rest of his pleas were unintelligible noises of wanton hunger.   
She slid down further, lowering herself; he released a shaky, prolonged moan as she took him. She vocalized her pleasure with each thrust of her hips, her rhythm and speed building with her desire. Faster. Harder. Both of them riding out their pleasure, their bodies relentlessly chasing its zenith until  
Their release struck them like lightning. Michael couldn’t temper his volume as he screamed out her name like an irreverent prayer. Mallory could barely breathe as pleasure like bursts of light shot through her veins. They collapsed together, slick with sweat and languid. Michael, with little strength, wrapped his arms around her, planting lazy kisses on her face and neck. She clung to him like a survivor to her last hope.  
“Mine.” He breathed into her ear.   
She kissed his neck, “Mine.”  
They would delight in each other several more times that night, much slower and gentler. A sensation washing over them that neither of them had felt in a long time...  
Peace  
___________  
The two new lovers were wrapped up together, sleeping as they hadn’t in years. Michael’s face was buried in Mallory’s neck like it was his refuge; her legs circled his waist, hands still entangled in his hair.  
A faint hum disturbed her rest. She opened her eyes to find herself staring up at a night sky, stars dotting the velvet canvas. She eased herself up, glancing around at the field where she had first met the being posing as Cordelia. Only this time, instead of the greenhouse, a large, wispy tree curled its silver branches up to the sky, gorged, white fruit with speckles of gold hung low upon it. She approached, curious at the sight.  
A rustling of footsteps caught her attention. The woman stood there, still in the guise of Cordelia, staring at the tree with forlorn eyes.  
“This is not how I intended this to happen,” she sounded far away, “It was all supposed to be much simpler than this.”  
Mallory glared, feeling no sympathy, “Why couldn’t I bring Cordelia back?”  
She sighed deeply, meeting her gaze, “You can’t cheat death forever, Mallory. Eventually it comes to claim its due.”  
She stepped toward her, “You’re lying.”  
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple, “I won’t let you, that’s why.”   
“Who are you?” She demanded.  
The woman shook her head, pouting slightly, “I have imagined this moment for years, eager to welcome you with open arms. And now here we are, and you already hate me.”  
Mallory took another confrontation step, “Who are you?”  
She smiled ruefully, holding up her arms as if in defeat, “Simply...I am God.”   
Mallory stared.  
“I am the bringer of light and creation. I am the light from which the daughters of Salem draw their power. And you” she dared to come closer and brush the back of her fingers over Mallory’s cheek, “...are my daughter.”  
“I don’t understand,” was her dumbfounded response.  
“You see, Michael’s father and I,” she chuckled, “Satan as he likes to be called, he and I are a balancing scale...a dichotomy which brings the universe into order. There is good and evil, light and dark. From the very beginning of time, we have fought for balance in the universe. However, there came a point where we stopped fighting for balance, and began fighting for dominance,” her face darkened, “He decided that he wanted to tip the scales, create chaos and violence over the whole earth. And now it is time to tip the scales back again. I am tired of his malevolence and wrath, I want to create a new world. One where death and disease is an ancient memory,” her smile returned, wistful, “And I will use you Mallory. I will use you to build this new creation. You were born to rule a new earth.”   
The memories of the stories her grandmother told her crashed over once again.   
“I’m just a witch.”  
She cupped her face, eyes widening, “No, Mallory. Oh, you are so much more. Don’t you understand? No witch has ever been able to do what you can, because you are not simply extraordinary, you are divine.”   
That doesn’t explain why you refuse to let me resurrect Cordelia.  
She threw her hands down, turning in a huff, “Can’t you think of anything else?!”   
Storm clouds began to gather on the horizon, “I have just told you that you are the daughter of God who will bring about a new world, and you’re worried about one stupid witch. Cordelia had to die. So did every other member of the coven,” she shook her head, frustrated, “Mallory you are my daughter, but it is also true that you are a witch. If every other witch was dead then the power of Supreme would transfer to you.”  
Her words from before crossed her mind, “I wasn’t the next Supreme.”  
She turned away from her, “No, Coco was.”  
That was a punch to the gut. A sudden flash of a vision appeared before her. Her ancestor, Mara...and her adopted sister Jescha, who faded into Coco.  
Her knees trembled.  
The woman went on, belligerent, “She was a vapid, stupid little girl but her powers were growing and given time and attention she would have ascended after Cordelia.”  
She faced Mallory again, a regretful expression scrunching her face, “Michael planned to kill everyone in the Outpost, I made sure that if no one else, Coco wouldn’t survive.”  
“You wanted Michael to kill the coven,” the revelation shook the ground beneath her.  
She held out her hands, almost in penance, “I know you cannot understand, but what I did was for a greater plan, a greater good. The witches had to die...Mead had to die. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Michael’s father and I knew that in order for both of our children to be put on the right path...there had to be a catalyst. Mead’s death forced Michael to the Cooperative and allowed me to ensure that you would have all the power you needed to stop him.”  
Fire exploded from Mallory’s fingertips, threatening to consume the woman; but she stopped the fireball, extinguishing it.  
“You killed them!” Mallory screamed.  
“Me?” her shoulders sagged, hurt, “Mallory it was Michael who walked into Robicheaux’s and erased your sisters.”  
“You not only watched it,” she cried through gritted teeth, “you set up the pieces for it to happen.”  
She tried to touch her, holding out her arms as if to embrace her, “I know my ways are difficult to understand!”  
Mallory knocked her back, “Don’t!”   
The woman regained her stance, watching her daughter with pleading eyes.  
“You think you’re different from Michael’s father? My life, Michael’s life, all of our lives are nothing but a game to you! You didn’t care about stopping the Apocalypse, you cared about winning. You and him are the same thing with different masks.”  
“I am trying to make a new world!” she screamed, thunder peeling from the distance, “I want to mend everything that Michael has broken. And the only way for me to do that is if you defeat him.”  
Mallory was shaking visibly, “I won’t hurt him. I won’t.”  
She scoffed, “He sheds a few tears and suddenly you think you know him? He is a curse, an ugly blot on creation that should never have taken his first breath.”   
She attempted to embrace her again, “You are my chosen vessel, my beautiful shining light that will destroy darkness once and for all.”  
“I don’t want whatever world you create,” she spat.   
The woman grew deadly serious, her voice dropping to a low, threatening tone. The storm rolled closer and closer, “Mallory, don’t make me hurt you. This will end on a battlefield, whether you choose to go willingly or not.”  
Mallory turned away from her, “Go to hell.”  
She opened her eyes in Michael’s bed, hearing his steady breathing beside her. She clung to him and began to cry.  
He awoke with a start, looking her over and trying to comfort her, “What’s wrong?”  
“I know exactly who I am. And I wish I didn’t.”  
He held her tightly, fully aware of their plight. He caressed her hair, “Every light casts a shadow, Mallory.”  
She sobbed, “I won’t hurt you.”  
“We won’t have a choice. Prophecy-“  
“Fuck prophecy,” she pulled back, “fuck their stupid games,” she kissed him, “I love you.”  
He breathed in deeply, laying his forehead on hers with an expression that declared his knowledge that this bliss couldn’t last; it was never going to.  
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips.  
...there is no happy love.   
But it is our own love.


	15. Ye Shall Know That I Am The Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sanctuary suffers for Mallory’s insolence.

Day 1

The first plague came without fanfare; it happened within a blink of time. One moment, the irrigation system put in place was working perfectly, and the next, people were choking on blood and the watering system was spraying red over every plant..   
Michael was called immediately to a meeting with the Cooperative, who proved the direness of the situation by opening a bottle of water, crystal clear until being poured out as thick, red gore.  
Michael poured the liquid into his hand, attempting to change it back as it splashed onto his skin. What would have normally been a simple parlor trick to him was now impossible. Mallory, who had accompanied him to the Cooperative’s disapproval, had the remaining put into a bowl. She spread her hand over the bowl, concentrating all the energy she could, but it remained blood.  
“Send out a group to to inspect any nearby lakes or rivers to start the decontamination process,” Michael ordered.   
“We already did,” one replied, “Every body of water for the nearest 300 miles is blood.”  
“There has to be some other kind of water storage you have,” mallory chimed in, much to the room’s surprise.  
“Why, thank you for the suggestion, Miss Mallory,” the same one replied disdainfully, “But we’ve gone through each backup storage since the first incident was reported, and not a single one isn’t pure blood.”  
“Even the water systems for the animals?”  
“Every trough, every aqueduct, every toilet is filled with blood.”  
“And even worse,” another stood up, “We’ve tested several residents and animals; at least 50 cases from each housing district and 80% of our animals have tested positive for HIV. We’ve ordered a complex-wide testing.”  
Michael placed his hands on the table, “How? Have they been drinking the blood?”  
“No. So far, everyone who so much as eaten or drunk anything from an hour before the first report is contaminated. Either their food and drinks were already so-“  
“Or they transmuted inside of them,” Mallory finished.  
“Lord Langdon, have we done anything to offend your father that he would send this curse?”  
“It’s her!” One screeched, pointing at Mallory, “The one from Outpost 3!”  
The room began to murmur and agree. Michael waved his hand, “Enough! I will speak with my father. See what must be done.”  
He stormed out of the room to their disgruntled shouts. Mallory followed behind him, quickening her pace to keep up.  
“It’s her, Michael, she told me she’d hurt me if I didn’t comply. And now she wants to bring the whole Sanctuary into it.”  
He didn’t slow down, keeping his deliberate, heavy gait. She rushed in front of him, putting out her hands to stop him, “Michael!”  
“I have to speak to my father,” he told her sternly.  
“He’s not going to take away something that will push us further into the plan.”  
His eyes were wild, “And what would you have me do, Mallory?”   
“I...I don’t know.”  
He sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders, “You and I are the only ones who have hope of saving them. Do you think you’re strong enough to heal them?”  
“All of them?” She shook her head, “I’ve never tried healing en masse before.”  
“We don’t have to get to all of them today,” he touched her cheek, “I’m going to get you total clearance so those assholes don’t harass you and we will do what we can to keep this contained.”  
She nodded, placing her hand over his and kissing his palm.  
“Mallory,” he looked her dead in the eyes, “I won’t hurt you either.”

Day 2

Mallory was able to get through nearly all of the infected humans, but barely a fraction of any of the animals by the time the next day came. Michael told her to return to the house and rest, and being so exhausted, she didn’t protest. Meanwhile, they were quickly finding out that neither magic nor science was able to fix their water problem.  
That’s when the swarms came.  
They started out as a rising black cloud from the east, appearing like a solid column from a distance; but they didn’t make a single blip on any of the Sanctuary’s radar or cameras, they couldn’t tell how far away it was or how fast it was heading their way. They decided the safest bet was to evacuate all residents into the underground shelters. Then as if hearing their plan, the swarm descended on the Sanctuary in an instant, passing through the protective ceiling like it was air. They were a legion of large ugly bugs with thick outer black shells and tails like scorpions. Their arrival sent the residents into a panic, and only a small percentage were able to get underground. Michael tried burning them, flinging blasts of fire straight into pockets of them, but it was as if they absorbed the flames. He appeared in the house, screaming for Mallory to get to safety.   
“What’s going on?!”  
“Some kind of swarm,” he urged her, “get to the shelter underneath here, there’s a secret passage from the bedroom-“  
“What about them?!” She indicates to the ensuing chaos, “I have to help them!”  
“We’re getting them shelter as quickly as we can, get underground now. There’s a false wall across from the bed, open it stay down there until I come to get you.”  
Arguing with him would only delay the inevitable. She did as he said and found the passage, feeling like a coward as she hid down there while the world above was suffering.  
When Michael came to get her, she didn’t know exactly how many hours it’d been. He looked so defeated, his shoulders sagging slightly as they left the shelter.  
“How bad is it?” She asked hesitantly.  
He frowned, “No one’s dead.”  
“That’s good, right?”  
He shook his head, “Whatever those things were, they were poisonous.”  
He didn’t elaborate, which worried her more than anything.  
“How many?”  
“Too many for you to try and heal.”  
She straightened, “I can’t just hide here when I can help them.”  
“Mallory, it’s not pretty.”  
“I can handle it.”  
The main lawn had been turned into a makeshift care center, tents raised up all around where doctors did their best to treat the poisoned patients.  
The sight was even worse than she expected. There were only a handful of people Mallory saw that weren’t covered on each patch of visible skin with red, swollen boils; green pus and blood leaked from them. Every report said the boils were unbearably itchy and agonizing to the touch. When she was spotted by some suffering residents, they formed an angry mob almost instantly, screaming about how she was to blame, that she was bringing all their misery. They would have ripped her to shreds if Michael hadn’t surrounded the two of them in a wall of fire.  
“Take another step and I’ll finish what the swarm started!”  
They called out accusations and curses, telling her to be thrown outside to the elements.  
“She’s the only one with a chance of helping you!” He yelled over them, “If you lay a finger on her, I’ll burn this entire complex to the ground!”  
The mob eventually subsided, allowing Mallory to try and heal as many as she could, though she was just as dehydrated and hungry as the rest. Every time it felt like the wind being knocked out of her. She’d stumble back, feeling emptier than before. When she tried to heal a group of them at once, she fainted. Michael rushed her back to the house and revived her. He told her to stay there. They would try again later.  
__________  
She visited some place in her sleep, different from the field of flowers she’d seen. This was fortress made of jewels, burning white light creating columns for support. A path of water like glass stretched forward leading to a throne. She took an unsure step, finding herself able to walk over the water easily. As she drew closer to the throne she saw her; sitting upright with head held high, adorned with a crown of stars, a billowing white dress flowed down like a waterfall to her feet.  
Mallory stopped right in front of it, glaring at her.   
“How long will you wait to yield to my will, Mallory?” She asked, shaking her head disappointedly, “Will you stand atop the bodies of humanity’s last efforts before fulfilling your purpose?”  
“How can you talk about peace and healing while you destroy what’s left?”  
“This world was going to be set ablaze regardless of who won the war,” she said proudly, “He burns for chaos. I burn for purification.”  
Mallory felt disgust roiling in her stomach, “Those people don’t deserve to die.”  
“Those people are the cause of all this in the first place. I’d say that is cause for divine judgement.”  
She threw up her hands, “You can’t punish them for setting them up to fail!”  
The woman on the throne gazed into her eyes, “This isn’t about the people in the Sanctuary, Mallory. This is about Michael,” her tone grew mocking, “the broken little orphan who needs a mommy. And you are willing to let the world burn while you fill that void in him and yourself.”   
The words were spears to her heart.  
“I love him.”  
The woman sighed heavily, “The human body can only survive three to four days without water, Mallory. Time is running out.” She placed her hand over her heart, eyes full of grief, “I take no pleasure in this, but if your insolence continues, I will send my wrath upon them until they are all dead. I will break you if I must.”

Day 3

Morning never came. Or at least, all lights had been extinguished. The complex had been covered in thick, inky blackness. To even move through it was like wading through mud. All electricity was down and couldn’t be fixed; even flash lights were unable to pierce the darkness. It was as if all light had been swallowed into this dark vortex. No one moved or talked for hours, like they’d been buried under the darkness.   
When the blackness dissipated, the entire complex was disoriented for several minutes; just long enough to see the fire raining from the sky straight towards them. There was no time for either Michael or Mallory to do anything. They, as well as the others, were lucky enough to escape into the shelters this time, but the fire crashed into their granaries and stables, killing nearly every plant and animal not already contaminated. Whatever blood that hadn’t been filtered out of the complex was used to douse the fire; and when they emerged, their utopia had met its own apocalypse. The stench of gore and burning flesh and plants billowed out with the waves of black smoke pouring through the now damaged dome, the complex was smoldering, only the bottom levels remained untouched.   
The once greatest achievement of human ingenuity was now reduced to huddled masses sitting in odorous, burning piles of their former glory.  
Michael and Mallory shared a grief stricken glance.   
They couldn’t defy their parents for much longer. Not if they wanted anyone to survive.

Day 4

Mallory remembered when Michael told them that there were pillaging cannibal hordes raiding the insecure Outposts. The Sanctuary, however, had been untouchable. But now that their resources were all but annihilated, and the integrity of their structural complex was compromised, those hordes descended upon the vulnerable residents like vultures to a carcass.   
Michael and Mallory fought them off for as long they could for the residents to barricade themselves. Even weakened, Michael set fire to many at once; their bodies and souls wiped from existence. Mallory pushed the back with all the force she could muster. Her arms were outstretched, sending telekinetic tsunamis to force the hungry raiders back several feet. Her heels were dug deeply into the dirt, her entire body straining, head pounding-  
She was knocked to the ground, a crushing weight over her chest as she lay flat on her back. She registered that two knees were atop of her, connected to a man, angry and holding a makeshift spear.  
It was Brock.  
His hair was overgrown, except for the top which was bald and covered in radiation burns. He was covered in blood, stinking of rotten flesh.  
Mallory froze, petrified as he lifted the spear to plunge it through her, a murderous, inhuman screech resonating from his throat-  
A figure tackled Brock to the ground, keeping him into a chokehold while he struggled, thrashing his spear wildly. The young man, dressed in servants clothes, red haired and freckled screamed to her, “Run!”  
She began to cry, involuntary, recognizing the face from so long ago, “Bartholomew…”  
“Run, Mallory!” He cried again.  
Adrenaline pushed her to her feet and she ran, she didn’t know where to. Bodies and chaos blocked every path. Screams pierced her ears. She began to sob, covering her head and dropping to her knees.  
There was a flash of white. A female voice.  
Only you prolong this madness, Mallory.  
The young witch threw out her arms, lifting her face to the heavens and released a shrill roar, like a battlecry to enforce aid from the earth. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth, every muscle taught with power.  
The ground shook violently. The rumble of shifting earth overpowering the terrified screams. Deep trenches opened up like pits of hell, ravenous jaws swallowing hordes of raiders in their wake. The living residents scrambled away, the invaders falling to the depths. Michael dropped to the ground, staring in awe as Mallory ascended above the scene, light bursting from her fingertips, vaporizing those who weren’t devoured by the pits.  
What was left of the hordes retreated, taking what spoils they could grab. As the last of them disappeared, Mallory slowly descended to the ground, the light fading and her cry ceasing. Michael ran to catch her, clutching her close as she passed out into his arms, breathing shallow and soaked in sweat.  
“It’s gonna be ok, Mallory,” he sounded so small, whispering assurances in her ear, tears falling from his cheeks to her dress. He recalled a moment from his childhood, gripping onto the dead body of his grandmother in that cursed house. He held tighter, praying to whatever could answer that she would return to him.  
________________________  
She was back inside the castle of white light, this time on her knees before the throne. The woman looked on her lovingly, stretching out her hand, beckoning her daughter to come forth. Mallory slowly stood, shuffling to her. The woman took her hand, giving her a sad smile, “Yes?”  
Her voice was ragged, barely above a whisper.  
“What do you want me to do?”


	16. Infinitum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory and Michael make a risky decision.

Mallory and Michael awoke in his bed, the soft glow of early morning on their faces. In a surge of energy, she threw off the covers and ran to the window, pulling the curtains back further.  
“The complex…”  
“Everything is back to the way it was,” Michael said blankly.  
She looked at him. He sat upright, his disheveled hair falling messily down his bare back. Realizing they were both naked, she closed the curtains again, making her way to sit on the bed.  
“They needed us strong again,” he continued under his breath.  
Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning against his shoulder.  
“I’d rather die than follow her plan.”  
He returned her embrace, forlorn and weak.She turned his head towards her, an invitation; as if to seal a covenant. They kissed, the energy between them sorrowful; this was their last act of their own free will, a longing goodbye.  
Or so that’s what Michael thought before she whispered faintly in his ear.  
“Do you trust me?”  
He furrowed his brows, nodding subtly.  
“Good.”  
Their battle for the world would take place away from the Sanctuary, so they were instructed; a bare patch of nuclear wasteland the apocalyptic battlefield. Dead, blackened trees coming up from the ground like spikes, a murky gray river running along the right. The open sky seemed like the dome of an arena, the two gladiators entering to please their masters and give them a good show. The two of them faced each other, surprisingly calm.   
Mallory shot her hand toward the river, muttering beneath her breath. Michael looked on in fear, but did nothing to stop her. The gray muddied water began to turn black as tar, bubbling. She stared into his eyes, giving a subtle nod, before blinking away to appear several feet into the air; sensing her plan, Michael joined her, mumbling the same spell to aid her.   
The earth began to shake, rods of lightning shooting down from the sky.  
Their plan had been discovered.  
“Take my hand!” Mallory screamed.  
He latched on as they plummeted towards the boiling liquid, in unison they chanted.  
“Tempus Infinitum!”  
These were their last words before plunging beneath the surface of the river.  
_____________  
Mallory stood in a world of black, waves of pale gray undulating in thin veins throughout. She couldn’t see Michael anywhere; she called his name to no avail.  
Two distinct, equally potent energies pulsated angrily in the atmosphere. The familiar tendrils of darkness she’d felt from her first entrance into the Sanctuary grasped at her, but she stayed just out of reach; while white hot spears of blinding light shot through, illuminating the world for brief terrifying moments.  
A figure appeared in one of the flashes, powerful, enraged; she roared, the force knocking Mallory onto her back, “Who the fuck do you think you are?!”  
She lifted herself up, fearful, but unwilling to show it, “Exactly who you wanted me to be. A savior.”  
Everything shook with her divine mother’s voice, causing her to curl in on herself for protection, “You are a child clinging to toys you can no longer play with! He is not only responsible for the death of everyone you have ever loved, but of the majority of the human population. The earth has been left a rotting, festering corpse because of him!”  
Everything stopped. An eerie calm settling over Mallory. She felt a hand on her back, making her jump.  
The woman, having now removed the guise of Cordelia, stood over her in full regalia. She stood unnaturally tall, her skin pale as snow, elven-like; her eyes the color of violet and her hair of moonlight. A glittering gown of midnight surrounded her, a crown of twelve stars encircling her brow.  
Mallory stood slowly, involuntary tears falling at the sheer beauty of the divine.   
“Mallory,” her mother’s voice was still and tender, “You are a caring soul. You are like a gardener, you need something to help, something to take care of. When I create this new world, you will have all of creation to tend to,” she scowled, “But him, he is chaff. He must be destroyed.”  
There was barely a pause before she answered firmly, “I won’t kill him.”   
The goddess forced her wrath to stay back, gritting her teeth and staring daggers into the stubborn, unbending young woman before her, “Ungrateful, spoiled girl…”  
“I was born to protect humanity,” she took a step forward, fingers already open, ready for attack, “I will protect the humanity in him. He can be saved. I believe that. I won’t stop believing that!”  
Fire engulfed her hands, but did not burn them.  
“You want him dead? Do your own dirty work. But you’ll have to go through me.”  
She shot columns of fire, pushing the goddess back. Mallory felt herself slipping back, fading away as the goddess stood consumed in fire.  
___________  
When the world faded back into view, she was clutching onto someone with all her might.  
“Mallory…?”  
She looked up at Michael. He was dirty, covered head to toe in dust and sweat. His clothes were in shambles, his face gaunt and eyes red, and his curly golden hair unkempt.  
“You did it,” he said in amazement.  
She cupped his face, inspecting him. She remembered that she’d never actually met him before the Outpost. It was strange seeing him so young and helpless looking.  
“For now.”  
She glanced at her surroundings. They stood in a simple white bedroom, a black frame canopy bed on the left, a nightstand beside it. Plain drawers sat on the opposite wall. It was simple, but homey.  
“This was my room at Robicheaux’s…”  
He took her hand, “We need to hide.”  
She nodded, leading him to the door, “Follow me.”  
Cordelia Goode sat observing Zoe’s class, watching her girls with pride.   
Madison was on a plane headed back to them with hopefully pertinent information on Michael, whom Cordelia feared would make an attempt on the academy any day now; she’d taken the precautions necessary and cast a protection spell over the academy. Any intruder who intended harm would be unable to pass. This, however, gave the Supreme little comfort.   
Her attention turned to the sound of running down the lobby steps. She saw Mallory rushing towards them in haste.  
And Michael following behind.  
Cordelia stood, bristling. Her arms held out to fight. The others caught sight of him and stood for a confrontation.  
“Stop!” Mallory yelled, her hands up in a sign of peace, “He’s not going to hurt us  
Cordelia, gripped with fear, demanded with wide eyes, “Mallory, what’s-“  
“Cordelia, listen to me, I know this is impossible to understand right now, and there’s so much I need to tell you; but first, I need you to cast a protection spell over us, something that will hide us from the spiritual realm.”  
They stared at each other, the older woman absorbing her protégés’ words, noting the complete sincerity they held. She relaxed slightly, still confused.  
Mallory insisted, “Is that possible?”  
“Maybe.”  
She balked as Mallory took Michael’s hand, “Then we need to do it quick.”


End file.
